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SEQUEL 



TO 

THE ENGLISH READER: 

OR, 
ELEGANT SELECTIONS 

IN PROSE JJYD POETRY. 

DESIGNED TO IMPROVE 

THE HIGHEST CLASS OF LEARNERS IN READING ; 

TO ESTABLISH 

A TASTE FOR JUST AND ACCURATE COMPOSITION ; 

AND TO PROMOTE 

THE INTERESTS OP PIETY AND VIRTUE. 



BY LINDLEY MURRAY, ^ ^ 
Author of an " English Grammar adapted to the different 
Classes of Learners , w 4^« a 



iTEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON, PHILADELPHIA. 



PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY S. PROBASCQ, 
1831. 











LC Control Number 
^PSS 031331 



RECOMMENDATIONS 

OF MURRAY'S WORKS. 



1. SEQUEL TO THE ENGLISH READER. 

u We notice this useful volume of Mr. Murray, for the sake of the ad- 
ditions and improvements which it has received in this ediLion. The 
selections are enlarged by nine different articles ; of which it is enough 
to say, that they display Mr. Murray's taste, judgment, and acquaintance 
with English literature ; and that enlightened regard to religion and mo- 
rality, which so eminently qualifies him to guide the studies of youth. 
What, however, chiefly deserves our remark, is an appendix annexed to 
this edition, containing Biographical Sketches of the authors. mentioned 
in the " Introduction to the English c Reader," the ",English Reader" 
itself, and the "Sequel to the Reader;" with, occasional strictures on 
their writings, and references to the particular works by which they 
have been most distinguished. These sketches are uncommonly well 
done. They form a sort of introduction to Literary Histary and Criti- 
cism, which must prove both interesting and instructive to the juvenile 
mind." Literary Journal, February, 1805. 

" We have already borne our testimony tothe ; high merit of Mr. Mur« 
ray, as an acute grammarian, andas blending in his various works, with 
uncommon happiness, a delicate and correct taste both in literature and 
morals. We are pleased, though not surprised, to see that the public has 
demanded a new edition of the respectable Avork now before us." 

Annual Jleview, 1804. 

44 We regard as a very valuable improvement, the biographical an£ 
critical Appendix introduced into this edition, of the -" Sequel to the 
English Reader." It contains short, but instructive accounts, of all the 
authors from whose works both these selections have been formed, those 
excepted, who are yet living. This, compilation (the Sequel) appears 
more free from objectionable passages, .and better adapted to the im- 
provement of youth, than any other, of the kin J which *we have seen.*' 

'Eclectic Review, June, 1805. 

"The second edition, of this excellent school bookcontains the addi- 
tion of nine extracts selected from Addison, Carter, H awkes worth, &c. 
An Appendix also of 62 pages is subjoined, containing Biographical 
Sketches of the authors from whom this selection is made. These w» 
executed with brevity and neatness.^We have no hesitation in recwjfE- 
mending this selection, .as the best ©fits kind." 

Critical Review. May, 1805. 
2. ENGLISH GRAMMAR. 

"Mr Murray's Grammar, Exercises, and Key 4c the 'Exercise?, forp 
altogether, by far, the most complete and judicious analysis of the Eng- 
lish language, that has hitherto been published. The rules for composi- 
tion are excellent ; the examples are selected with taste and judgment J 
sand the execution of the whole displays an unusual degree of criticp, 
Scuteaess .and sagacity." Annual Revietv,lW$» 



* Mr. Murray's English Grammar, English Exercises, and Abridg 
ment of Uie Grammar, claim our attention on account of their bein$ 
composed on the principle we have so frequently recommended, of com 
bining religious and moral improvement with the elements of scienti- 
fic knowledge. But as it is not a part of our plan, to enter into a par- 
ticular examination of works of this nature, we shall only say, that they 
have long been in high estimation." 

" The late learned Dr. Blair gave his opinion ol them in the follow- 
ing terms : — Mr. Lindley Murray's Grammar, with the Exercises and 
the Key in -a separate volume, 1 esteem as a most excellent perform- 
ance. 1 think it superior to any work of that nature we have yet had t 
and am persuaded that it is, by much, the best Grammar of the English 
language extant. On Syntax, in particular, he has shown a wonderful 
degree of acuteness and precision, in ascertaining the propriety of lan- 
guage, and in rectifying the numberless errors which writers are apt to 
commit. Most useful these books must certainly be to all who are ap 
plying themselves to the arts of composition.' " 

Guardian of Education, July, 1 803. 

44 This Grammar is a publication of much merit, and fully answert 
the professions in the title. The Appendix contains some of the bea* 
rules for writing elegantly, and with propriety, that we recollect to 
have seen." Monthly Review, July, 1796. 

M We have been much pleased with the perusal of Mr. Murray's 
44 English Exercises." They occupy, with distinguished excellence, a 
most important place in the science of the English language ; and, as 
such we can warmly recommend them to the teachers of schools, as 
well as to all those who are desirous of attaining correctness and preci- 
sion in their native tongue." Monthly Review, July, 1797. 

44 These Exercises are in general well calculated to promote the par- 
pose of information, not only with regard to orthography and punctua- 
tion, but also in point of phraseology, syntax, and precise perspicuity of 
composition." Critical Review, October, 1797 

** The very general approbation, which this Grammar has received 
from the public, is sufficiently indicative of its merits : and we have 
much pleasure in confirming the decision of the public, respecting its 
superiority over all other English Grammars. We request the author 
to continue his exertions for the instruction of the rising generation.* 

Critical Review, June, 1807. 

* The principle upon which all the publications of Mr. Murray, foi 
the instruction of the rising generation, are founded, is such as give* 
him an unquestionable claim to public protection. The man who blend* 
religion and morals with the elements of scientific knowledge, renders an 
eminent service to society : and where ability of execution is added to 
excellence of design, as in the present case, the claim becomes irresist- 
ible." Anti- Jacobin Review, January, 1804. 

44 Mr. Murray's Grammar, as well as his other publications, has ro 
eeived the uniform approbation of literary characters and journalists. 
We do not hesitate warmly to recommend them to the instructers of 
youth in every part of the United States, as eminently conducive to pur* 
aorality and religion, and to the acquisition of a correct and elegant 



-#iyle. They deserve to take place of all other works of the saniekiptf 
which are now used in our schools." 

The American Review and Literary Journal, f$f 

■July, ^August, and September, 1801. 

"Our sentiments, with regard, to the ^mission, or insertion of the rela- 

s tive pronoun, are exactly stated by Mr. Lindley Murray, the ingenious 

.author of the best English Grammar, beyond all comparison, that has 

.yet appeared;" -Imperial Review, September^^QS. 

** We have to close our avowal, of the pleasure, -with which we 1 hav* 
read this excellent work, (the Grammar,) by expressing. our entire ap 
probation of the author's Appendix, which will enable the student to 
make a proper use, in composition, of the instructions dispersed through 
the Grammar.' It concludes, with a serious and affectionate-exhortation 
to youth ; which manifests the purity and dignity- of the .■author's prin- 
ciples, as the general execution of his work demonstrates;his talent and 
research. We rejoice-that it has .attained to so e,xtepsive~a. circulation 
and we earnestly recommend it to all, who are desirous of acquiring « 
dear and comprehensive knowledge, pf the English language ; but mora 
. especially to those- who are engaged in the grammatical instruction of 
.youth; as we have no doubt that -they will derive frpm it the moat 
..Valuable assistance to their labours." 

Eclectic Review,' September, 1805. 

3. INTRODUCTION TO THE ENGLISH READER. 
-"Our pages bear ample testimony, both to the ability and the dili- 
gence of Mr. Murray. His different publications evince much sound 
Judgmentand good sense; and his selections are very well calculated to 
.answer the intended purpose. What Mr. Murray observes in his system 
of rules ,for assisting children to read with propriety, is worth attention; 
the precept with which he cpocludes, is particularly so : ' Find out, and 
; imitate a good example.'" British Critic, November, 1801. 

A. THE ENGLISH READER. 
" This selection reflects much credit pn the taste of the Compiler ;and 
-the arrangement of the varipus pieces is judicious. The preliminary 
rules for enunciation are usefuland clearly delivered. We therefore re- 
commend this small volume to those who wish to attain, without tha 
i help of instructers, the importapt.,aclvantages of thinking and speaking 
vWith propriety." /uyiojilhly Review, August, 17&9. 

5. THE POWER OF RELIGION ON THE MIND. 

"This work, which has been long and justly-admired, has, in the last 
.edition, received many alterations and improvements ; and, in its pre- 
sent enlarged state,. forms, in our opinion, .one of the- best books that can 
be put into the hands of young people. The subject is grav^ and im- 
portant: but Mr. Murray ha? rendered it, highly interesting; and- engag- 
ing, by a judicious selection of anecdotes and examples; which, by the 
intermixture. of pious reflections, he teaches the reader to apply to hi* 
own benefit." Guardian of Education, *4«g. 1803. 

4i That * examples-draw where precepts fail,' isa truth which his bee© 
y^fknowledged in all ages andnatiuns : and on the strength of this pric» 
, ciple, Mr. Murray has had recourse to experience, in evincing the pow«8 
,*nd importance of religion. He has thus furnished an interesting.^- 



6 

lection of testimonies ; and we wonder not, that a work so instruct*? * 
and amusing, as well as impressive, should have been generally patron- 
ised. It is a book which may be read, with profit, by persons in all situ 
ations : and with the rising generation, it may answer the double pur 
pose, of improving them in biography and in virtue." 

■Monthly Review, August, 1801. 
6. INTRODUCTION av LECTURE FRANCOIS. 
* This little Volume, which is designed for the use i>f persons who 
have just begun to learn the French language, is composed of extracts 
from French writers of reputation, who are distinguished by the pro- 
priety and usefulness -of their sentiments. Mr. Murray has exercised his 
usual caution and judgment in these selections ; and his explanations, in 
the Appendix, of the idiomatical expressions and difficult phrases, 
which occur in the extracts, are well calculated to simplify, and conse- 
quently to facilitate the study of the language." 

Anti-Jacobin Revieui, April, 1807. 



•^$y&*- 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

he second edition of this work has received the Author's particulu 
attention. Many of the pieces in the former edition, are omitted, and 
ethers inserted which are of superior importance, or more interesting to 
young persons. The new edition contains also, in an Appendix, Bio- 
graphical Sketches of the authors mentioned in the " Introduction to the 
English Reader," the "English Reader" itself, and the "Sequel to the 
Reader," with occasional strictures on their writings, and references to 
the particular works by which they have been most distinguished.* 
The strictures are derived from authors ^of taste and celebrity. 

By these Biographical Sketches, it is the Compiler's intention, not 
enly to gratify the young reader's curiosity, respecting the authors of the 
$)£eces he has perused ; but also to present to him such facts and senti- 
ments as are peculiarly instructive and interesting, and calculated to 
make durable impressions on his mind. The language too of these 
sketches has been studiously regarded ; that no want of aocuracy or 
perspicuity in the composition, might prevent this part of the book from 
forming an additional number of occasional exercises in reading. 

In the third edition, several Biographical Sketches will be found, of 
authors who died since the publication .of the work. 

* From the difficulty of obtaining accurate and impartial informa- 
tion, tad jrom motives of delicacy, no account is given of living authoac 



INTRODUCTIOiN. 



THE " English Reader" has been so favourably received by the pub- 
Kc, as to encourage the Compiler to hope, that the present volume wifl 
not be deemed unworthy of atteution. It pursues the same objects as 
the former work ; it preserves the same chaste attention to the morals 
of youth ; it3 materials are taken from the most correct and elegant wri- 
ters ; and as the pieces are generally more extended, and contain a great- 
er variety of style and composition, it is presumed that it forms a propet 
44 Sequel to the Reader," and is calculated to improve, both in schools 
and in private families, the highest >e!ass of young readers. 

In selecting materials for the poetical part of his work, the Compilei 
met with few authors, the whole of whose writings were unexceptionable. 
Some of them have had unguarded moments, in which they have writ- 
ten what is not proper to come under the notice of youth. He must not 
therefore be understood as recommending every production of all the 
poets who have contributed to his selection.* J udicious parents and tu- 
tors, who feel the importance of a guarded education, will find it incum- 
bent upon them to select for their children and pupils, such writings, 
tooth in prcse and poetry, as are proper for their perusal ; and youDg 
ipersons will evince their virtue and good sense, by cordially acquiescing 
in the judgment of those who are deeply interested in their welfare. 
Perhaps the best reason that can be offered, in favour of poetical selec- 
tions for the use -of young and innocent minds, is, the tendency which 
they have, when properly made, to preserve the chastity of their sen 
timents, and the purity of their morals. 

In "The Sequel," as well as in "The English Reader," several pieces 
are introduced, which in a striking manner display the beauty and ex- 
cellence of the Christian religion. Extracts of this kind, if frequently 
diffused amongst the elements of literature, would doubtless produce 
happy effects on the minds of youth ; and contribute very materially to 
counteract, both the -open and the secret labours of Infidelity. With 
'these views, the Compiler derived particular satisfat tion, in selecting 
those pieces <which are calculated to. attach the young mind to a religion 
perfectly adajpted to the condition of man ;.and which .not only furnish- 
es the most rational and sublime enjoyments in this life, hut secures 
complete and permanent felicity hereafter. 

* Justice to the authors from whose writings the extracts were made, 
;*nd regard to the credit of the present work, rendered the insertion of 
indispensable. 



CONTENTS* 

PART I.— PIECES IN PROSE 
CHAPTER I. 

NARRATIVE PIECES. 

P«g» 

"Ssct. 1. Religion the foundation of content. An allegory, li 

2. The vision of Mirza ; exhibiting a picture of human life, 15 
^.■Endeavours of mankind: to get rid of their burdens; a 

dream, - - - - -.- - 17 

"4. The same subject continued, -- - • 19 

5. The vision of Almet, . - - - 21 

6. Religion and superstition contrasted. A vision, - 25 

CHAPTER II DIDACTIC PIECES. 

Sect, 1. Vicious connexions the ruin of virtue, - - .24 

2. On cheerfulness, - - - -- - 31 

3. Happy effects of contemplating the works nf nature, 33 
4. , Reflections on the universal presence -of the. Deity, 34 

CHAPTER III.— ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 

Sect. 1. Our imperfect knowledge-ofa future state, suited to the 

condition of man, 37 

2. Youth the proper season for gaining ' knowledge, and 

forming religious habits, 40 

3. The truth of Christianity proved, from the conversion of 

the Apostle, Paul, - - - - 43 

CHAPTER IV.-^DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 

■-Sect. 1. The heavens and the earth show the glory and the wis- 
dom of their Creator. — The earth happily adapted to 
the nature of man, - - - - 45 

2. An eruption of Mount'Vesuvius, - - - 47 

3. ; Description of the preparations -made by Xerxes, the Per- 
sian Monarch, ibr invading Greece, - - 49 

4. Character of Martin Luther, - - - 51 
6. The good and bad man compared, in the season of adver- 
sity, . - . - . - - - - $3 

CHAPTER V.— PATHETIC PIECES. 
^Sbct. -1. Rome saved by female virtue, - 65 

.2. Execution of Cranmer, 'Archbishop of Canterbury, 69 

-3. Christianity furnishes the best consolation under the evil» 

of life, - - - - fejl 

A. Benefits to be rderived .from scenes ol .distress, .- ,-42 



CONTENTS. 9 

CHAPTER VI— DIALOGUES. Page 

6&CT. 1. Theron and Aspasio.— Beauty and utility combined in the 

productions of nature, 66 

2. Cadmus and Hercules. — Importance of literature, 68 

3. Marcus Aurelius Philosophus and Servius Tullius. — An 

absolute and limited monarchy compared, - 71 

4. Theron and Aspasio. — On the excellence of the Holy 

Scriptures, 74 

CHAPTER VII— PUBLIC SPEECHES. 

Sect. 1. The defence of Socrates before his Judges, - 78 

2. The Scythian ambassadors to Alexander, on his making 

preparations to attack their country, - - 81 

3. Speech of the earl of Chatham, on the subject of employ- 

ing Indians to fight against the Americans, • 83 

CHAPTER VIII— PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 
Sect. 1. The Voyage of Life: an allegory, 85 

2. The vanity of those pursuits which have human appro- 

bation for their chief object, 88 

3. The folly and misery of idleness, - - • 91 

4. The choice of our situation in life, a point of great im- 

portance, - - - - - 94 

5. No life pleasing to God, that is not useful to man. An 

eastern narrative, .... 97 

6. Character of the Great Founder of Christianity, - 101 

7. The spirit and laws of Christianity superior to those of 

every other religion, - 102 

8. The vision of Carazan : Or, social love and beneficence 

recommended, - 104 

9. Creation the product of divine goodness, - - 107 

10. The benefits of religious retirement, - - 108 

11. History often days of Seged, emperor of Ethiopia, 113 

12. History of Seged continued, - - - 116 

13. The vision of Theodore, the hermit of Teneriffe, found in 

his cell, - - - - - -118 

14. The vision of Theodore continued, - - 122 

15. The vision of Theodore continued, - . 125 



PART II— PIECES IN POETRY, 
CHAPTER I 

NARRATIVE PIECES. 

ir. 1, The chameleon ; or pertinacity exposed, • • 128 

2. The hare and many friend. , ... 12Q 

3. The three warnings, - 131 

4. The hermit, •'•••» 133 



*S© CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER II -^DIDACTIC PIECES. 

Pag* 

bm OT. I. The love of the world detected, - 138 

J2. On Friendship, 139 

3. Improvement of time recommended. * • 144 

CHAPTER III.— DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 

Sect. 1. The Spring - 145 

2. Description of winter at Copenhagen, - ■» 146 

,3. Night described, ----.. 147 

4. Grongar Hill, - - - -- - 148 

5. Description of a Parish poor-house, - • 151 

6. A summer evening's meditation, -- 152 

7. Cheerfulness, ~ -. 155 

8. Providence, - - ,- - -- 156 

9. The last day, ..... .. 157 

CHAPTER W — PATHETIC PIECES, 

•ftscr. I. Hymn to humanity, .... 159 

2. A night-piece on death, - - - - 161 

3. In every condition of life, praise is due to the Creator, 163 

4. Folly of human pursuits, ib. 

5. An address to the Deity, - - - - 165 

6. A monody on the death of lady Ly ttelton, - ] 67 

CHAPTER V.— PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

-Sect. 1. Hymn to contentment, - - - -- 171 

2. An elegy written in a country church-yard, • 172 

3. Ode to wisdom, - - - - - 175 

4. The Rake and the Hermit, - .- - 177 

5. The deserted village, - - - - 180 
-6. The deserted village, continued, - - .- 184 
'7. The Traveller; or, a prospect of society, - - 188 

8. The Traveller, continued, - - - • 192 

9. The vanity of human wishes, ... 197 
10. The vanity of human wishes, continued, - - 201 
APPENDIX, -400 



SEQUEL 

TO 

THE ENGLISH READER* 



FARTL 
PIECES m PROSE. 



CHAPTER I. 

NARRATIVE PIECES. 
SECTION L 

Religion the foundation of Content. An Allegory. 

OM 4 R, the hermit of the mountain Aubukabis, which rises in thi 
•ast of Mecca, and overlooks the city, found one evening a man 
sitting pensive and alone, within a few paces of his cell. Omar re- 
garded him with attention, and perceived that his looks were w ild 
and haggard, and that his body wa& feeble and emaciated. The man 
also seemed to gaze steadfastly on Omar ; but such was the absti ac- 
tion of his mind, that his eye did not immediately take cognizance of 
its object. In the moment of recollection he started as from a dream ; 
he covered his face ki eonfusion; and bowed himself to the grcnnd. 
"Son of affliction," said Omar, "who art thou<, and what is thy 
distress?" " My name," replied the stranger, " is Hassan, and I am 
a native of this city. The angel of adversity has laid his hand upon 
me, and the wretch whom thine e) e compassionates thou canst not 
deliver." u To deliver thee," said Omar, " belongs to him • »nly 
from whom we should receive with humility both good and evil ; yet 
aide not thy life from me ; for the burden which I cannot remn\ e, I 
may at least enable thee to sustain." Hassan fixed his eyes upon 
the ground, and remained some time silent; then fetching a leep 
ligh, he looked up at the hermit, and thus complied with his re- 
quest. 

" It is now six years since our mighty lord the caliph ALnaJic, 
whose memory be blessed, first came privately to worship in the tern* 
pie of the holy city. The blessing which he petitioned of the pr<>| >het, 
as the prophet's vicegerent, he was diligent to dispense. In the inter- 
vals of his devotion, therefore, he went about the city relieving dts tress 
and restraining oppression ; the widow smiled under his protet tioft, 
and the weakness of age and infancy was sustained by his biRinty. 
uo dreaded no evil but sickness, and expected no good beyond 



It Sequel to tlit English Reader. Pari I 

the reward of my labour, was singing- at my work, when Almalie 
entered my dwelling. He looked round with a smile of complacen* 
cy ; perceiving that though it was mean, it was neat ; and though I 
was poor, I appeared to be content. As his habit was that of a pil- 
grim, I hastened to receive him with such hospitality as was in my 
power ; and my cheerfulness was rather increased than restrained 
by his presence. After he had accepted some coffee, he asked me 
many questions, and though by my answers I always endeavoured to 
excite him to mirth, yet I perceived that he grew thoughtful, and 
eyed me with a placid but fixed attention. I suspected that he had 
6ome knowledge of me, and therefore inquired his country and his 
name. " Hassan, 1 ' said he, " I have raised thy curiosity, and it 
shall be satisfied : he who now talks with thee, is Almalie, the sove- 
reign of the faithful, whose seat is the throne of Medina, and whose 
commission is from above." These words struck me dumb with as 
tonishment, though I had some doubt of their truth : but Almalie 
throwing back his garment, discovered the peculiarity of his vest, 
and put the royal signet upon his finger. I then started up, and wat 
about to prostrate myself before him, but he prevented me : " Has- 
san," said he, " forbear : thou art greater than I ; and from thee I 
have at once derived humility and wisdom." I answered, " Mock 
no* thy servant, who is but a worm before thee ; life and death are 
in thy hand, and happiness and misery are the daughters of thy 
will." " Hassan," he replied, " I can no otherwise give life and 
happiness, than by not talcing them away : thou art thyself beyond 
the reach of my bounty ; and possessed of felicity which I can nei- 
ther communicate nor obtain. My influence over others, fills my 
bosom with perpetual solicitude and anxiety ; and yet my influence 
over others extends only to their vices, whether I would reward or 
punish. By the bow- string, I can repress violence and fraud ; and 
by the delegation of power, I can transfer the insatiable wishes of 
avarice and ambition from one object to another : but with respect 
to virtue, I am impotent ; if I could reward it, I would reward it 
in thee. Thou art content, and hast therefore neither avarice nor ■ 
wnbition. To exalt thee, would destroy the simplicity of thy life, 
and diminish that happiness which I have no power either to increase 
or to continue." — He then rose up, and commanding me not to 
disclose his secret, departed. 

" As soon as I recovered from the confusion and astonishment m 
which the caliph left me, I began to regret that my behaviour had 
intercepted his bounty; and accused that cheerfulness of folly 
which was the concomitant of poverty and labour. I now repined 
at the obscurity of my station, which my former insensibility had 
perpetuated. I neglected my labour, because I despised the re- 
ward ; I spent the day in idleness, forming romantic projects to re- 
-cover the advantages which I had lost: and at night, instead of 
losing myself in that sweet and refreshing sleep, from which I used 
to rise with new health, cheerfulness, and vigour, I dreamed of 
splendid habits and a numerous retinue, of gardens, palaces, feast 
ing, and pleasures ; and waked only to regret the illusions that had 



Chap. I. Narrative Pieces 23 

ranished. My health was at length impaired by the inquietude of 
my mind ; I sold all my moveables for subsistence ; and reseiTed 
only a mattress, upon which I sometimes lay from one night to 
another. 

" In the first moon of the following year, the caliph came again to 
Mecca, with the same secrecy, and for the same purposes, lie was 
willing 1 once more to see the man, whom he considered as deriving 
felicity from himself. But he found me, not singing at my work, 
ruddy with health, vivid with cheerfulness ; but pale and dejected, 
sitting on the ground, and chewing opium, which contributed to sub- 
stitute the phantoms of imagination for the realities of greatness. 
He entered with a kind of joyful impatience in his countenance, 
which, the moment he beheld me, was changed to a mixture of 
wonder and pity. I had often wished for another opportunity to ad- 
dress the caliph; yet I was confounded at his presence, and, throw, 
ing myself at his feet, I laid my hand upon my head, and was 
speechless, " Hassan," said he, " what canst thou have lost, whoso 
wealth was the labour of thine own hand ; and what can have made 
thee sad, the spring of whose joy was in thy own bosom ? What 
evil hath befallen thee ? Speak, and if I can remove it, thou art 
happy." I was now encouraged to look up, and I replied, " Let my 
lord forgive the presumption of his servant, who rather than utter a 
-falsehood, would be dumb forever. I am become wretched by the 
loss of that which I never possessed. Thou hast raised wishes, 
which indeed I am not worthy thou shouldst satisfy; but why should 
tt be thought, that he who was happy in obscurity and indigence, 
would not have been rendered more happy by eminence and 
wealth?" 

" When I had finished this speech, Almalic stood some moment* 
in suspense, and I continued prostrate before him. " Hassan." said 
lie, " I perceive, not with indignation, but regret, that I mistook 
thy character. I now discover avarice and ambition in thy heart, 
which lay torpid only because their objects were too remote to 
rouse them. I cannot therefore invest thee with authority, be- 
cause I would not subject my people to oppression ; and because 
I would not be compelled to punish thee for crimes which I first 
enabled thee to commit. But as I have taken from thee that 
which I cannot restore, I will at least gratify the wishes that I ex- 
cited, lest thy heart accuse me of injustice, and thou continue still a 
stranger to thyself. Arise, therefore, and follow me."— I sprung- 
from the ground as it were with the wings of an eagle; I kissed the 
hem of his garment in an ecstasy of gratitude and joy ; and when 1 
went out of my house, my heart leaped as if I had escaped from the 
den of a Hon. I followed Almalic to the caravansary in which lie 
lodged ; and after he had fulfilled his vows, he took me with him to 
Medina. He gave me an apartment in the seraglio ; I was attend- 
ed by his own servants ; my provisions were sent from his own ta- 
ble ; I received every week a sum from his treasury, which exceed, 
ed the most romantic of my expectations. But I soon discovered, 
that no dainty was so tasteful, as the food to which labour procured 

B 



' 4 Sequel to the English Reader. Fart 1 

an appetite : no slumbers so sweet, as those which weariness invit 
ed i and no time so well enjoyed, as that in which diligence is ex 
pecting its leward. I remembered these enjoyments with regret; 
and while I was sighing in the midst of superfluities, which, though 
they encumbered life, yet I could not give up, they were suddenly 
taken away. Almalic, in the midst of the glory of his kingdom, 
and in the full vigour of his life, expired suddenly in the bath: suck 
thou knowest was the destiny which the Almighty had written upoi 
his head. 

" His son Aububekir, who succeeded to the throne, was incensed 
against me, by some who regarded me at once with contempt and 
envy. He suddenly withdrew my pension, and commanded that I 
should be expelled the palace; a command which my enemies exe. 
cuted with so much rig-our, that within twelve hours I found myself 
in the streets of Medina, indigent and friendless, exposed to hunger, 
and derision, with all the habits of luxury, and all the sensibility of 
pride. Oh ! let not thy heart despise me, thou whom experience 
has not taught, that it is misery to lose that which it is not happiness 
to possess. Oh ! that for me this lesson had not been written on 
the tablets of Providence ! I have travelled from Medina to Mecca ; 
but I cannot fly from myself. How diiFerent are the states in 
which I have been placed! The remembrance of both is bitter: for 
the pleasures of neither can return.'" — Hassan having thus ended 
his story, smote his hands together; and looking upwards, burst 
into tears. 

Omar having waited till this agcny was past, went to him, and 
taking him by the hand, " My son, r said he, " more is yet in thy 
power than Almalic could give, or Aububekir take away. The les. 
son of thy life the prophet has in mercy appointed me to explain." 

" Thou wast once content with poverty and labour, only because 
they were become habitual, and ease and affluence were placed be- 
yond thy hope ; for when ease and affluence approached thee, thou 
wast content with poverty and labour no more. That which then 
became the object, was also the bound of thy hope ; and he, whose 
utmost hope is disappointed, must inevitably be wretched. If thy 
supreme desire had been the delights of paradise, and thou had be 
lieved that, by the tenor of th} r life, these delights had been secured, 
as more could not have been given thee, thou wouldst not have re- 
gretted that less was not offered. The content which was once en 
joyed, was but the lethargy of soul ; and the distress which is now 
suffered, will but quicken it to action. Depart, therefore, and bo 
thankful for all tilings ; put thy tru?t in Him, who alone can gratify 
the wish of reason, and satisfy thy soul with good ; fix thy hope upon 
that portion, in comparison of which the world is as the drop of the 
bucket, and the dust of the balance. Return, my son, to thy labour; 
thy food shall be again tasteful, and thy rest shall be sweet; to thy 
content also will be added stability, when it depends not upon that 
which is possessed upon earth, but upon that which is expected in 
heaven. 1? 

Hassan, upon whose mmd the angel of instruction impressed the 



Chap. 1. Narrative Pieces. IS 

counsel of Omar, hastened to prostrate himself in the temple of the 
prophet. Peace dawned upon his mind, like the radiance of the 
morning- : he returned to his labour with cheerfulness ; his devotion 
became fervent and habitual; -and the latter days of Hassan were 
happier than the first. 

OR JOHNSON, 

SECTION II. 

The vision of Mirza ; exhibiting a picture of human Irf^ 

On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom of my 
forefathers, I always keep holy, after having- washed myself, and of- 
fered up my morning- devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, 
in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation aad prayer. As I 
was here refreshing- myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a 
profound contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and passing 
from one thought to another, Surely, said I, man is but a shadow, and 
life a dream. Wliilst I was thus musing-, I cast mj r eyes towards the 
summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one 
in the habit of a shepherd, but who was in reality a being of superior 
nature. I drew near with profound reverence, and fell down at his 
feet. The g-enius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and af 
fability, that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispel- 
led all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He 
lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirza, said 
lie, I have heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow me. 

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock ; and placing 
me on the top of it, Cast thy eyes eastward, said he, and tell me what 
thou seest. I see, said I, a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water 
rolling through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, is the vale of 
misery ; and the tide of water that thou seest, is part of the great 
tide of eternity. "What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see, rises 
out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at 
the other ? What thou seest, said he, is that portion of eternity which 
is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the be- 
ginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now, said he, 
this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tellme what 
thou discoverest in it. 1 see a bridge, said I, standing in tine midst 
of the tide. The bridge thou seest, said he, is human life ; consider 
it attentively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it 
consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken 
urches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the nurnbei 
about a hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me 
that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand ; but that a great flood 
swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition 1 
now beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what thou discoverest 
on it. I see multitudes of people passing over it, said I, and a black 
cloud hanging on each end of it. As I looked mere attentively, I 
saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the 
freat tide that flowed underneath it : and, upon further examiaa. 



16 Sequel to the English Reader. Part ! 

lion, perceived there were innumerable trap doors that lay concealed 
in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, than they 
fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These 
hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so 
lhat throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud than many 
fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multi. 
plied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were 
entire. There were indeed some persons, but their number was 
very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken 
arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent 
with so long a walk. 

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful struc 
ture, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart 
was filled with a deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpect, 
edly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing 
that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up to. 
wards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and, in the midst of 3 
speculation, stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very 
busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes, and danced 
before them : but often, when they thought themselves within the 
reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sunk. In this 
confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, 
and others with urinals, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrust. 
mg several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in theii 
way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thu> 
forced upon them. 

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, 
told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. Take thine eyes off the 
bridge, said he, and tell me if thou seest any thing thou dost noi 
comprehend. Upon looking up, What mean, said I, those great 
flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and 
6etting upon it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, 
cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, several lit- 
tle winged boys that perch in great numbers upon tl*e middle arches 
These, said the genius, are envy, avarice, superstition, despair, tov& 
with the like care" an! passions that infest human life. 

I here fetched a deep sigh. Alas, said I, man was made in vain \ 
how is he given away to misery and mortality ! tortured in life, and 
swallowed up in death ! The genius being moved with compassioD 
towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more, 
said he, on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out 
for eternity ; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which th.6 
tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it. I di- 
rected my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or not the good ge« 
oius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part 
of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw 
-he valley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into an im- 
mense ocean that had a huge rock of adamant running through the 
midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still 
rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it, 






Chap 1. Narrative Pieces. If 

but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with innumerable 
islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven 
with a thousand little shining- seas that ran among them I could see 
persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, 
passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or rest 
ing on beds of flowers. Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so 
delightful a scenj. I wished for the wings of an eagle that I might 
fly away to those happy seats ; but the genius told me there was no 
passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw open, 
ing every moment upon the bridge. The islands, said he, that lie so 
fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the 
ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number 
than the sands on the sea-shore. There are myriads of islands be. 
hind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further than thine 
eye, or even thine imagination, can extend itself. These are the 
mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and 
kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these 
several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and 
degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are set- 
tled in them : every island is a paradise accommodated to its respec- 
tive inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth con- 
tending for ? Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportuni- 
ties qf earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will con- 
vey thee to so happy an existence ? Think not man was made in 
vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him. — I gazed with inex- 
pressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, show 
me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark 
nlouds, which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of ada- 
mant. The genius making no answer, I turned about to address 
myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then 
turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating , 
but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy 
islands, I saw nothing" but the long- hollow valley of Bagdat, witL 
cxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides of it. 

. ADDISON 

SECTION III. 

Endeavours of mankind to get rid of their burdens; a dream.* 

It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the misfortune* 
of mankind were cast into a public stock, in order to be equally 
distributed among the whole species, those who now think them 
6elves the most unhappy, would prefer the share they are already 
possessed of, before that which would fall to them by such a divi. 
sion. Horace has carried this thought a great deal further: he 
says that the hardships or misfortunes which we lie under, are mere 
easy to us than those of any other person would be, in case we 
could change conditions with him. 

* Dr Johnson used to say, that this Essay of Addison's on the burdens 
a' mankind, was the most exquisite he had ever read. 
U 9 



?» Sequel to the English Reader. Pari t 

As I was ruminating on these two remarks, and seated in my el 
bow-chair, I insensibly fell asleep, when, on a sudden, I thought 
there was a proclamation made by Jupiter, that every mortal should 
bring in his griefs and calamities, and throw them together in a 
heap. There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. I took 
my stand in the centre of it, and saw, with a great deal of pleasure, 
the whole human species marching one after another, and throwing 
down their several loads, which immediately grew up into a prodi 
gious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds. 

There was a certain lady of a tliin airy shape, who was very ae 
tive in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying glass in one of he? 
hands, and was clothed in a loose flowing robe, embroidered with 
several figures of fiends and spectres, that discovered themselves in 
a thousand chimerical shapes, as her garment hovered in the wind. 
There was something wild and distracted in her looks. Her name 
was Fakcy. She led up every mortal to the appointed place, after 
having very officiously assisted him in making up his pack, and 
laying it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me, to see 
my fellow-creatures groaning under their respective burdens, and 
to coj>. ?: '* '* that prodigious bulk of human calamities which lay he 
fore me. 

There were, however, several persons who gave me great diver 
sion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a fardel very 
carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, which, upon 
his throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be Poverty. Another, 
afl ?r a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage, which, upon 
examining, I found to he his wife. 

There were numbers of lovers saddled with very whimsical bur- 
den,? composed of darts and flames ; but, what was very odd, though 
they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bundles of 
calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast them into the 
heap, when they came up to it : but, after a few faint efforts,, shook 
their heads, and marched away as heavy laden as they came.. I saw 
multitudes of old women throw down their wrinkles, and several 
young ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There were 
very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty teeth. The 
truth of it is, I was surprised to see the greater part of the mountain 
made up of bodily deformities. Observing one advancing towards 
the heap, with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found 
upon his near approach, that it was only a natural hump, which he 
disposed of, with great joy of heart, among this collection of human 
miseries. There were likewise distempers of all sorts j though I 
could not but observe, that there were many more imaginary than 
real. One little packet I could not but take notice of, which was a 
complication of all the diseases incident to human nature, and was io 
the hand of a great many fine people : this was called the Spleen 
|5ut what most of all surprised me, was a remark I made, that there 
was not a single vice or folly thrown into the whole heap ; at whick 
1 eras very much astonished, having concluded within myself, thai 



Chap. 1 . Narrative Pieces. 19 

every one would take this opportunity of getting rid of his passions* 
prejudices, and frailties. 

I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellow, who I did 
not question came loaded with his crimes : but upon searching into 
his buudle, I found that, instead of throwing his guilt from him, he 
had only laid down his memory. He was followed by another 
worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his igno- 
rance. 

When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their burdens, fli6 
phantom which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle 
spectator of what had passed, approached towards me. I grew un- 
easy at her presence, when of a sudden she held her magnifying 
glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, than I 
was startled at the shortness of it, which now appeared to me in its 
utrrost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of the features made 
me very much out of humour with my own countenance; upon 
which I threw it from me like a mask. It happened very luckily, 
that one who stood by me had just before thrown down his visage, 
which it seems was too long for him. It was indeed extended to a 
shameful length : I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as 
long as my whole face. We had both of us an opportunity of mend- 
ing ourselves ; and all the contributions being now brought in, 
every man was at liberty to exchange his misfortunes for those of 
another person. But as there arose many new incidents in the se- 
quel of my vision, I shall reserve t?hem for the subject of my next 
paper. 

SECTION IV. 

Tlie same subject continued. 

Ln my last paper I gave my reader a sight of that mountain of 
miseries, which was made up of those several calamities that afflict 
*Jie minds of men. I saw, with unspeakable pleasure, the whole 
species thus delivered from its sorrows ; though, at the same time, 
as we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several materials of 
which it was composed, there was scarcely a mortal, in this vast 
multitude, who did not discover what he thought pleasures of life; 
and wondered how the owners of them ever came to look upon them 
hs burdens and grievances. 

As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miseries, 
this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second proclamation, 
that every one was nowat liberty to exchange his affliction, and to 
return to his habitation with any such other bundle as should be de- 
livered to him. 

Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir herself, and, parcelling 
out the whole heap with incredible activity, recommended to every 
one his particular packet. The hurry and confusion at this time 
were not to be expressed. Some observations which I made upoa 
this occasion, I shall communicate to the public. A venerable gray 
fee&ded man., who had laid down the colic, and who I found wanted 



20 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

an heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful son, that had been 
thrown into the heap by an angry father. The graceless youth, in 
less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the 
beard, and had like to have knocked his brains out ; so that meeting 
the true father, who came towards him with a fit of the gripes, he 
begged him to take his son again, and give him back his colic ; but 
they were incapable either of them to recede from the choice they 
had made. A poor galley slave, who had thrown down his chains, 
took up the gout in their stead, but made such wry faces, that one 
might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain, li 
was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges that were made, 
for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and 
care against pain. 

The female world were very busy among themselves in bartering 
for features : one was trucking a lock of gray hairs for a cai buncle ; 
and another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoul. 
ders ; and a third cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation : but 
on all these occasions, there was not one of them who did not think 
the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her possession, much 
more disagreeable than the old one. I made the same observation 
on every other misfortune or calamity, which every one in the as. 
sembly brought upon himself, in lieu of what he had parted with; 
whether it be that all the evils which befall us are in some measure 
suited and proportioned to our strength, or that every evil becomes 
more supportable by our being accustomed to it, I shall not determine. 
I could not for my heart forbear pitying the poor humpbacked gen. 
tleman, mentioned in the former paper, who went off a very well 
shaped person with a stone in his bladder; nor the fine gentleman 
who had struck up this bargain with him, that limped through a 
whole assembly of ladies who used to admire him, with a pair of 
6houlders peeping over his head. 

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend with 
the long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short faee^ but he 
made so grotesque a figure, that as I looked upon him I could not for- 
bear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of 
countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, 
that I found he was ashamed of what he had done : on the other side, 
I found that I myself had no great reason to triumph, for as I went 
to tcuch my forehead I missed the place, and clapped my finger upon 
my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was exceedingly prominent, I 
gave it two or three unlucky knocks as I was playing my hand about 
my face, and aiming at sobip other part of it. I saw two other gen* 
tlemen by me, who were in the same ridiculous circumstances.— 
These had made a foolish exchange between a couple of thick bandy 
legs, and two long trap-sticks that had no calves to them. One of 
these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up in- 
to the air, above his ordinary height, that his head turned round with 
it; while the other made so awkward circles, as he attempted to 
walk, that he scarcely knew bow to move forward upon his new sup • 
porters. Observing him to be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck mjr 



Cfiap. 1. Narrative Pieces. %& 

cane in the ground, and told him I would la}' him a bottle of wme, 
that he did not march up to it, on a line that I drew for him, in a 
quarter of an hour. 

The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made 
a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under the pres- 
sure of their several burdens. The whole plain was fdled with mur- 
murs and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter, at length, 
taking compassion on the poor mortals ordered them a second time 
to lay down their loads, with a design to give every one his own 
again. They discharged themselves with a great deal of pleasure ; 
after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross delusions, 
was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her stead a god- 
dess of a quite different figure : her motions were steady and com- 
posed, and her aspect serious but cheerful. She every now and 
then cast her eyes towards heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter: 
her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by 
the mount of Sorrows, but what I thought very remarkable, the 
whole heap sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a third part 
so big as it was before. She afterwards returned every man his 
own proper calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most 
commodious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very 
well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice, as to 
the kind of evils which fell to his lot. 

Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this 
vision, I learned from it never to repine at my own misfortunes, o? 
to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any man 
to form a right judgment of his neighbour's sufferings ; for which 
reason also, I have determined never to think too lightly of another's 
complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures Aviih 
sentiments of humanity and compassion. addisqx* 

SECTION V. 

The Vision o/Almet. 

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose \ 
And these be happy call'd, unhappy those : 
But Heaven's just balance equal will appear, 
While those are plac'd in Hope, and these in Fear. 

POPE. 

Almet, the dervise who watched the sacred lamp in the sepuk 
chre of the prophet, as he one day rose up from the devotions of the 
morning, which he had performed at the gate of the temple, with 
his body turned towards the east, and his forehead on the earth, saw 
before him a man in splendid apparel, attended by a long retinue, 
who gazed steadfastfy on him, with a look of mournful complacency 
and seemed desirous to speak, but unwilling to offend. 

The dervise, after a short silence, advanced, and saluting him 
with the calm dignity which independence confers upon humility, 
requested that he would reveal his purpose 



12 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

" Almet," said the stranger, " thou seest before thee a man whom 
die hand of prosperity has overwhelmed with wretchedness. What, 
ever I once desired as the means of happiness I now possess ; but 1 
Am not yet happy, and therefore 1 despair. I regret the lapse of 
ame, because it g-lides away without enjoyment ; and as I expecj 
nothing in the future but the vanities of the past, I do not wish that 
the future should arrive. Yet I tremble lest it should be cut off, 
and nry heart sinks, when I anticipate the moment, in which eter« 
nity shall close over the vacuity of my life, like the sea upon the 
path of a ship, and leave no traces of my existence more durable 
than the furrow which remains after the waves have united. If in 
Hie treasures of thy wisdom, there is any precept to obtain felicity, 
vouchsafe it to me. For this purpose, I am come : a purpose which 
yet I feared to reveal, lest, like all the former, it should be disap- 
pointed." Almet listened with looks of astonishment and pity, to 
t lis complaint of a being, in whom reason was known to be a pledge 
of immortality : but the serenity of his countenance soon returned ; 
a id stretching out his hands towards heaven, " Stranger," said he, 
** the knowledge which 1 have received from the prophet, I will 
communicate to thee." 

As I was sitting one evening at the porch of the temple, pensive 
at d alone, my eye wandered among the multitude that was scatter- 
ed before me ; and while I remarked the weariness and solicitude 
which were visible in every countenance, 1 was suddenly struck 
with a sense of their condition. Wretched mortals, said I, to what 
purpose are you busy ? If to produce happiness, bj r whom is it en» 
joyed? Do the linens of Egypt and the silks of Persia, bestow feli- 
city on those who wear them, equal to the wretchedness of yonder 
slaves, whom I see leading the camels that bring them? Is the 
fineness of the texture, or the splendour of the tints, regarded with 
delight by those, to whom custom has rendered them familiar ? or 
can the power of habit render others insensible of pain, who live 
only to traverse the desert ; a scene of dreadful uniformity, where a 
barren level is bounded only by the horizon ; where no change of 
prospect, or variety of images, relieves the traveller from a sense of 
toil and danger ; of whirlwinds which in a moment may bury him in 
the sand, and of thirst which the wealthy have given half their pos 
sessions to allay ? Do those on whom hereditary diamonds sparkle 
with unregarded lustre, gain from the possession what is lost by the | :■ 
wretch who seeks them in the mine ; who lives excluded from + he 
common bounties of nature ; to whom even the vicissitude of day 
and night is not known; who sighs in perpetual darkness, and 
whose life is one mournful alternative of insensibility and labour ? If 
those are not happy who possess in proportion as those are wretch- 
ed who bestow, how vain a dream is the life of man ! And if there 
is, indeed, such difference in the value of existence, how shall we 
acquit of partiality the hand by which this difference has been 
made. 

While my thoughts thus multiplied, and my heart burned within ' 
me, I became sensible of a sudden influence from above. The 



Chap. 1. JVarrativt Pieces. 53 

streets and the crowds of Mecca disappeared. I found myself 
i sitting on the declivity of a mountain, and perceived at my right 
j hand an angel, whom I knew to be Azoran, the minister of reproof. 
| When I saw him, I was afraid. I cast my eyes upon the ground, 
l, and was about to deprecate his anger, when he commanded me to 
I be silent. " Almet," said he, " thou hast devoted thy life to medita- 
ition, that thy counsel might deliver ignorance from the mazes of 
icrror, and deter presumption from the precipice of guilt; but the 
.book of nature thou hast read with understanding : it is again open- 
ed before thee : look up, consider it, and be wise." 
a I looked up, and beheld an enclosure, beautiful as the gardens of 
; paradise, but of a small extent. Through the middle, there was a 
green walk; at the end, a wild desert; and beyond, impenetrable 
/darkness. The walk was shaded with trees of every kind, that 
.were covered at once with blossoms and fruit ; innumerable birds 
( were singing in the branches ; the grass was intermingled with 
s/lowers, which impregnated the breeze with fragrance, and painted 
;Cie path with beauty. On the one side llowcd a gentle transparent 
stream, which was just heard to murmur over the golden sands that 
Sparkled at the bottom; and on the other, were walks and bowers, 

fountains, grottos, and cascades, which diversified the scene with 
; endless variety, but did not conceal the bounds. 

While I was gazing in a transport of delight and wonder on this 
^enchanting spot, I perceived a man stealing along the walk with a 
-,' thoughtful and deliberate pace. His e} r es were fixed upon the 
(earth, and his arms crossed on his bosom; he sometimes started as 
,i/ a sudden pang had seized him ; his countenance expressed solici- 
,1'i'J.e and terror; he looked round with a sigh, and having gazed a 
jmornent on the desert that lay before him, he seemed as if he 

• wished to stop, but was impelled forward by some invisible power. 
Jfi? features, however, soon settled again into a calm melancholy 
iliis eyes were again fixed on the ground, and he went on as before, 
i with apparent reluctance, but without emotion. I. was struck 
i >vith his appearance; and turning hastily to the angel, was abcul 
Uo inquire, what could produce such infelicity in a being-, surround 
ied with every object that could gratify every sense; but he prevent- 
,;ef. my request: " The book of nature," said he, " is before thee" 

look up, consider it, and be wise." I looked, and beheld a val- 
ley between two mountains that were craggy and barren. On the 
•path there was no verdure, and the mountains afforded no shade 

• the sun burned in the zenith, and every spring was dried up: but 
the valley terminated in a country that was pleasant and fertile, 
shaded with woods, and adorned with buildings. At a second view, 
) I discovered a man in this valley, meagre indeed and naked, but 
, bis countenance was cheerful, and his deportment active. He kept 

his eye fixed upon the country before him, and looked as if he 
would have run, but thai, he was restrained, as the other had been 

; impelled, by some secret influence. Sometimes, indeed, I perceived 
a sudden expression .if pam, and sometimes he stepped short as if his 

ijfoot was pierced by \he a^oerities of the way : but the sprigbtlmess 



f 4 Sequel to Che English Reader. Part . 

of his countenance instantly returned, and he pressed forward with- 
out appearance of repining or complaint. 

I turned again towards the angel, impatient to inquire from what 
secret source happiness was derived, in a situation so different from 
that in which it might hare been expected ; but he again prevented 
my request : " Almet," said he, " remember what thou hast seen, 
and let this memorial be written upon the tablet of thy heart. Re 
member, Almet, that the world in which thou art placed, is but the 
road to another; and that happiness depends not upon the path, 
but the end. The value of this period of thy existence, is fixed by 
hope and fear. The wretch who wished to linger in the garden, 
who looked round upon its limits with terror, was destitute of enjoy 
ment, because he was destitute of hope, and was perpetually 
tormented by the dread of losing that which yet he did not enjoy. 
The song of the birds had been repeated till it was not heard, and 
the flowers had so often recurred, that their beauty was not seen ; 
the river glided by unnoticed, and he feared to lift his eye to the pros, 
pect, lest he should behold the waste that circumscribed it. But ho 
that toiled through the valley was happy, because he looked for 
ward with hope. Thus, to the sojourner upon earth, it is of 
little moment whether the path he treads be strewed with flowers or 
with thorns, if he perceives himself to approach those regions, in 
comparison of which the thorns and the flowers of this wilderness 
lose their distinction, and are both alike impotent to give pleasure 
or pain. 

" What then has eternal wisdom unequally distributed ? That 
which can make every station happy, and without which every 
Nation must be wretched, is acquired by virtue ; and virtue is pos • 
sible to all. Remember, Almet, the vision which thou hast seen ; 
and let my words be written on the tablet of thy heart, that thou 
mayst direct the wanderer to happiness and justify God to man." 

While the voice of Azoran was yet sounding in my ear, the pros, 
pect vanished from before me, and I found mpelf again sitting at 
the poich ot the temple. The sun was gone down, the multitude 
was retired to rest, and the solemn quiet of midnight concurred 
with the resolution of my doubts, to complete the tranquillity of my 
mind. 

Such, my son, was the vision which (he prophet vouchsafed me, 
oot for my sake only, but for thine. Thou hast sought felicity in 
temporal things ; and therefore thou art disappointed. Let not in- 
struction be lost upon thee ; but go thy way, let thy flock clothe the 
naked, and thy table feed the hungry ; deliver the poor from oppres- 
sion, and let thy conversation be above. Thus shalt thou " rejoice 
in hope." and look forward to the end of life, as the consummation 
pf thy felicity. 

A 'met, in whose breast devotion kindled as he spoke, returned in- 
to the temple, and the stranger departed in peace. 

HAWKESWOB.TH. 



Chap. 1. No,} rative Pieces. t$ 

SECTION VI 
Religion and Superstition cont'isted. 



I had lately a very remarkable dream, which made so strong an 
impression on me, that I remember every word of it ; and if you are 
not better employed, you maj r read the relation of it as follows. 

I thought I was in the midst of a very entertaining set of company, 
and extremely delighted in attending to a lively conversation, when, 
oq a sudden, I perceived one of the most shocking figures that imagi- 
nation can frame, advancing towards me. She was dressed in black, 
her skin was contracted into a thousand wrinkles, her eyes deep 
sunk in her head, and her complexion pale and livid as the counte- 
nance of death. Her looks were filled with terror and unrelenting 
severity, and her hands armed with whips and scorpions. As soon 
as she came near, with a horrid frown, and a voice that chilled my 
very blood, she bade me follow her. I obeyed, and she led me 
through rugged paths, beset with briers and thorns, into a deep soli- 
tary valley. Wherever she passed, the fading verdure withered be- 
neath her steps ; her pestilential breath infected the air with malig- 
nant vapours, obscured the lustre of the sun, and involved the fair 
face of heaven in universal gloom. Dismal howlings resounded 
througli the forest ; from every baleful tree, the night raven uttered 
his dreadful note; and the prospect was filled with desolation and 
horror. In the midst of this tremendous scene, my execrable guide 
addressed me in the following manner. 

" Retire with me, O rash, unthinking mortal ! from the vain al- 
lurements of a deceitful world ; and learn, that pleasure was not 
designed the portion of human life. Man was born to mourn and to 
be wretched. This is the condition of all below the stars ; and who- 
ever endeavours to oppose it, acts in contradiction to the will of 
heaven. Fly then from the fatal enchantments of ) r outh and social 
delight, and here consecrate the solitary hours to lamentation and 
wo. Misery is the duty of all sublunary beings ; and every enjoy- 
ment is an offence to the Deity, who is to be worshipped only by 
the mortification of every sense of pleasure, and the everlasting ex- 
ercise of sighs and tears. w 

This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my spirits, and seemed 
to am ihilate every principle of joy within me. I threw myself be- 
neath i blasted yew, where the winds blew cold and dismal round 
my head, and dreadful apprehensions chilled my heart. Here I re 
solved to lie till the hand of death, which I impatiently invoked, 
should put an end to the miseries of a life so deplorably wretched. In 
this sad situation I espied on one hand of me a deep muddy river, whose 
heavy waves rolled on in slow, sullen murmurs. Here I determin- 
ed to plunge ; and was just upon the brink, when I found myself 
suddenly drawn back. I turned about, and was surprised by the 
sight of the loveliest object I had ever beheld. The most engagirg 
charms of youth and beauty appeared in all her form; erFuJge; 1 

C 






t6 Sequel to the English. Header. Part \ 

glories sparkled in her eyes, and their awful splendours were soft, 
cned by the gentlest looks of compassion and peace. At her ap- 
proach, the frightful -pectre, who had before tormented me, vanish- 
ed away, and with hei all the horrors she had caused. The gloomy 
clouds brightened iuto cheerful sunshine, the groves recovered their 
rerdure, and the whole region looked gay and blooming as the gar- 
den of Eden* I Was quite transported at Ibis unexpected change, 
and reviving pleasure began to gladden my thoughts ; when with a 
look of inexpressible sweetness, my beauteous deliverer thus utter, 
ed her divine instructions. 

''My name is Religion. I am the offspring of Truth and 
Love, and the parent of Benevolence, IIope, and Joy. That 
monster, from whose power I have freed you, is called Supersti 
tion; she is the child of Discontent, and her followers are Feab 
and Sorrow. Thus different as we are, she has often the insolence 
to assume my name and character ; and seduces unhappy mortals to 
think us the same, tiil she, at length, drives them to the borders ol 
Despair, that dreadful abvss into which you were just going tc 
wnk." 

" Look round, and survey the various beauties of the globe, 
which heaven has destined for the seat of the human race ; and 
consider whether a world thus exquisitely framed, could be meant for 
the abode of misery and paifl. For what end has the lavish hand of 
Providence diffused innumerable objects of delight, but that all 
might rejoice in the privilege of existence, and be filled with grati. 
tude to the beneficent Author of it ? Thus to enjoy the blessings he 
lias sent, is virtue and obedience ; and to reject them merely as 
means of pleasure, is pitiable ignorance, or absurd perverseness. In. 
finite goodness is the source of created existence. The proper ten. 
dency of every rational being, from the highest order of raptured 
seraphs, to the meanest rank of men, is, to rise incessantly from 
lower degrees of happiness to higher. They have faculties assigned 
them for various orders of delights." 

"What!'* cried I, "is this the language of Religion? Does 
she lead her votaries through flowery paths, and bid them pass an 
nnlaborious life Where are the painful toils of virtue, the mortifi 
cations of penitents, a n d the self-denying exercises of saints and he 
roes 3 " 

" The true enjoyments of a reasonable being," answered slip 
mildly, "do not consist in Unbounded indulgence, or luxurious 
ease, in the tumult of passions, the languor of indulgence, or the 
flutter of light amusements. Yielding to immoral pleasures, coj»- 
lupts tin mind; living to animal and trifling ones, debases it: botb 
in their degree disqualify it for its genuine good, and consign it over 
to wretchedness. Whoever Would be really happy, must make the 
diligent and regular exercise of his superior powers his chief atten- 
tion ; adorning the perfections of his Maker, expressing good-will to 
his felloW-creatures, and cultivating inward rectitude. To his lower 
faculties he must allow such gratifications as will, by refreshing 
invigorate his nobier pursuits. In the regions inhabited by angelic 






C/uip. i Narrative Pieces. $? 

natures, unmingled felicity forever blooms ; joy flows there with a 
perpetual and abundant stream, nor needs any mound to check its 
course. Brings conscious of a frame of mind originally diseased, aa 
all the human race has cause to be, must use the regimen of n 
stricter self-government. Whoever has been guilty of voluntary ex- 
cess, must patiently submit both to the painful workings of nature, 
and needful severities of medicine, in order to his cure. Still he is en . 
titled to a moderate share of whatever alleviating accommodations this 
fair mansion of his merciful Parent affords, consistent with his recove- 
ry. And, in proportion as this recovery advances, the liveliest joy will 
spring from his secret sense of an amended and improved heart. — So 
far from the horrors of despair is the condition even of the guilty*. — 
Shudder, poor mortal, at the thought of the gulf into which thou 
wast just now going to plunge." 

" Whilst the most faulty have every encouragement to amend, the 
more innocent soul will be supported with still sweeter consolations 
under all its experience of human infirmities, supported by the glad- 
dening assurances, that every sincere endeavour to oulgrpw them, 
shall be assisted, accepted, and rewarded. To such a one, the 
lowliest self-abasement is but a deep laid foundation for the most 
elevated hopes ; since they who faithfully examine and acknowledge 
what they are, shall be enabled under my conduct, to become what 
they desire. The Christian and the hero are inseparable ; and to 
the aspirings of unassuming trust and filial confidence, are set no 
bounds. To him who is animated with a view of obtaining appro? 
bation from the Sovereign of the universe, no difficulty is insuiv 
mountable. Secure, in this pursuit, of every needful aid, his conflict 
with the severest pains and triads, is little more than the vigorous 
exercises of a mind in health. His patient dependence on that 
providence which looks through all eternity, his silent resignation, 
his ready accommodation of his thoughts and behaviour to its in* 
Ecrutable way§, are, at once the most excellent sort of self-denial, 
and a source of the most exalted transports. Society is the true 
sphere of hu,rnan virtue. In social, active life, difficulties will per- 
petually be met with ; restraints of many kinds will be necessary ; 
and studying to behave right in respect of these, is a discipline of the 
human heart, useful to others, and improving to. itself. Suffering i3 
no duty, hut where it is necessary to avoid guilt, or to do good ; nor 
pleasure a crime, but where it strengthens the influence of bad in- 
clinations, or lessens the generous activity of virtue. The happiness 
allotted, to man in his present sta,te, is indeed faint and low, com* 
pared with his immortal prospects, and noble capacities : but yet 
whatever portion of it the distributing hand of heaven offers to 
each, individual, is a needful support and refreshment for the pre- 
sent moment, so far as it may not hinder the attaining of his 
final destination." 

"Return then with me from continual misery, to moderate en- 
joyment, and grateful alacrity : return from the contracted views 
of solitude, to the proper duties of a relative and dependent be 
»ng. Religion is not confined to cells and closets, nor restxaia. 



23 Sequel to the English Reader Pari 1 

ed to sullen retirement. These are the gloomy doctrines of Super- 
stition, by which she endeavours to break those chains of benevo. 
lence and social affection, that link the welfare of every particular 
with that of the whole. Remember that the greatest honour you 
can pay the Author of your being-, is a behaviour so cheerful a3 
discovers a mind satisfied with its own dispensations." 

Here my preceptress paused ; and I was going to express my ac. 
tenowledf ments for her discourse, when a ring of bells from tlw 
neighbouring village, and the new rising sun darting his beams 
through my windows, awoke me 

CARTER. 



CHAPTER II. 

DIDACTIC PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Vicious connexions the ruin of virtue. 

AMONG the numerous causes which introduce corruption into 
me heart, and accelerate its growth, none is more unhappily pow- 
erful than the contagion which is diffused by bad examples, and 
heightened by particular connexions with persons of loose princi. 
pies, or dissolute morals. This, in a licentious state of society, is the 
most common source of those vices and disorders which so much 
abound in great cities ; and often proves, in a particular manner, 
fatal to the young ; even to them whose beginnings were once auspi- 
cious and promising. It may therefore be a useful employment of 
attention, to trace the progress of this principle ol corruption ; to 
examine the means by which " evil communications" gradually 
undermine, and at last destroy " good morals." It is indeed disa- 
greeable to contemplate human nature, in this downward course of 
its progress. But it is always profitable to know our own infirmities 
and dangers. 

As certain virtuous principles are still inherent in human nature, 
there are few who set out at first in the world without good dispo- 
sitions. The warmth which belongs to youth naturally exerts it- 
self in generous feelings, and sentiments of honour ; in strong at- 
tachment to friends, and the other emotions of a kind and tendei 
heart. Almost all the plans with which persons who have been 
liberally educated, begin the world, are connected with honourable 
views. At that period, they repudiate whatever is mean or base. It is 
pleasing to them to think of commanding the esteem of those among 
whom they live, and of acquiring a name among men. But alas : 
how soon does this flattering prospect begin to be overcast ! De. 
sires of pleasure usher in temptation, and forward the growth of disor- 
derly passions. Ministers of vice are seldom wanting to encourage 
and flatter the passions of the young. Inferiors study to creep inia 



Chap. ft DtJbctic Pieces. 20 

favour by servile obsequiousness to all their desires and humours. 
Glad to find any apology for the indulgences of which they are fond, 
the young too readily listen to the voice of those who suggest tc 
them that strict notions of religion, order, and virtue, are old fash, 
ioned and illiberal ; that the restraints which they impose are only 
fit to be prescribed to those who are in the first stage of pupilage ; 
or to be preached to the vulgar who ought to be kept within the 
closest bounds of regularity and subjection. But the goodness of 
their hearts, it is insinuated to them, and the liberality of their views, 
will fully justify their emancipating themselves, in some degree, 
from the rigid discipline of parents and, teachers. 

Soothing as such insinuations are to the youthful and inconsider- 
ate, their first steps, however, in vice, are cautious and timid, and 
occasionally checked by remorse. As they begin to mingle more in 
the wcrld, and emerge into the circles of gaiety and pleasure, finding 
these loose ideas countenanced by too general practice, they gradu- 
ally become bolder in the liberties they take. If they have been bred 
to business, they begin to tire of industry, and look with contempt 
on the plodding race of citizens. If they are of superior rank, they 
think it becomes them to resemble their equals ; to assume that free 
dom of behaviour, that air of forwardness, that tone of dissipation, 
that easy negligence of those with whom they converse, which ap- 
pear fashionable in high life. If affluence of fortune unhappily con . 
curs to favour their inclinations, amusements and diversions sue 
ceed in a perpetual round : night and day are confounded ; gaming 
fills up their vacant intervals ; they live wholly in public places ; 
they run into many degrees of excess, disagreeable even to them- 
selves, merely from weak complaisance, and the fear of being ridi- 
culed by their loose associates. Among these associates, the most 
hardened and determined always take the lead. The rest follow 
f hem with implicit submission ; and make proficiency in this school 
jf iniquity, in exact proportion to the weakness of their understand- 
ings, and the strength of their passions. 

How many pass away, after this manner, some of the most valu- 
able years of their life, tost in a whirlpool of what cannot be called 
pleasure, so much as mere giddiness and folly ! In the habits of per- 
petual connexion with idle or licentious company, all reflection is 
tost; while circulated from one empty head> and one thoughtless 
heart, to another, folly shoots up into all its most ridiculous forms ; 
prompts the extravagant, unmeaning frolic in private ; or salliet 
forth in public into mad riot ; impelled sometimes by intoxication, 
sometimes by mere levity of spirits. 

Amidst this course of juvenile infatuation,. I readily admit, that 
much good nature may still remain. Generosity and attachments 
may be found ; nay, some awe of religion may still subsist, and some 
remains of those good impressions which were made upon the mind 
in early days. It might ) T et be very possible to reclaim such persons, 
and to form them for useful and respectable stations in the world, if 
rirtuous and improving society should happily succeed to the plac» 
of lhat idle crew, with whom they now associate ; if important hue*. 

C 2 



30 Sequel to the English. Header. Pail I 

ness should occur, to bring 1 them into a different sphere of action i 
or, if some seasonable stroke of affliction should in mercy be sent, to 
recall them to themselves, and to awaken serious and manly thought 
But if youth and vigour, and flowing- fortune continue ; if a similar 
suceession of companions go on to amuse them, to engross their time, 
and to stir up their passions ; the day of ruin — let them take heed, 
and beware ! — the day of irrecoverable ruin, begins to draw nigh. 
Fortune is squandered; health is brcfken ; friends are offended, affront- 
ed, estranged ; aged parents, perhaps, sent afflicted and mourning to 
the dust. 

There are certain degrees of rice which are chiefly stamped with 
the character of the ridiculous, and the contemptible : and there are 
also certain limits, beyond which, if it pass, it becomes odious and 
detestable. If, to other corruptions which the heart has already re- 
ceived, be added the infusion of sceptical principlesj that worst of all 
the " evil communications" of sinners, the whole of morals is then 
on the point of being overthrown. For, every crime can then be 
palliated to conscience ; every check and restraint which had hiiher 
to remained, is taken away. He who, in the beginning of his course, 
soothed himself with the thought, that while he indulged his desires, 
he did hurt to no man ; now, pressed by the necessity of supplying 
those wants into which his expensive pleasures have brought him, 
goes on without remorse to defraud, and to oppress. The lover of 
pleasure now becomes hardened and cruel ; violates his trust, or be- 
trays his friend ; becomes a man of treachery, or a man of blood , 
satisfying, or at least endeavouring all the while to satisfy himself, 
that circumstances form his excuse ; that by necessity he is impel- 
led ; and that, in gratifying the passions which nature had implant- 
ed within him, he does no more than follow nature. 

Miserable and deluded man ! to what art thou come at the last ? 
Dost thou pretend to follow nature, when thou art contemning the 
laws of the God of nature ? when thou art stifling bis voice within 
thee, which remonstrates against thy crimes? when thou art violat- 
ing the best part of thy nature, by counteracting the dictates of jus. 
tice and humanity ? Dost thou follow nature, when thou renderest 
thyself a useless animal on the earth ; and not useless only, but nox- 
ious to the society to which thou belongest, and to which thou art a 
disgrace ; noxious, by the bad example thou hast set ; noxious, by 
the crimes thou hast committed ; sacrificing innocence to thy guilty- 
pleasures, and introducing shame and ruin into the habitations of 
peace ; defrauding of their due the unsuspicious who have trusted 
thee ; involving in the ruins of thy fortune many a worthy family ; 
reducing the industrious and the aged to misery and want ; by all 
which, if thou hast escaped the deserved sword of justice, thou hast 
at least brought on thyself the resentment, and the reproach, of all 
the respectable and the worthy.«~Tremble then at the view of the 
gulf which is opening before thee. Look with horror at the pre- 
cipice, on the brink of which thou standest : and if yet a moment be 
Jgft for retreat, thin* Uqw thou mayst escape, and be saved. 



Chtti l> Didactic Pieces. 31 

SECTION IL 
On Cheerfulness. 

I have alvVays preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I con- 
eider an act. the former a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and 
transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. They who are sub 
jectto the greatest depressions of melancholy, are often raised into 
the greatest transports of mirth ; on the contrary, cheerfulness 
though it does noi give the mind a gladness so exquisite, prevents it 
from falling into any depth of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of light- 
ning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a mo 
ment ; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day-Lght in the mind, and 
fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity. 

Men of austere principles look upon mirth, as too wanton and dis- 
solute for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph 
and insolence of heart, that are inconsistent with a life which is 
eyerv moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. 

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these exceptions. It 
is of &. bericus and composed nature. It does not throw the mind 
into a condition improper for the present state of humanity ; and is 
very conspicuous in the characters of those, who are looked upon as 
the greatest philosophers among the heathens, as well as among those, 
who have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among 
Christians. 

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to our- 
selves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author of our 
being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts. 
The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not on4y 
easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and facul 
ties of the soul : his imagination is always clear, and his judgment 
undisturbed; his tev.iper is even and unruffled, whether in action^r 
T» solitude. He comes with a relish to all those g-oods which nature 
has provided for him ; tastes all the pleasures of the creation which 
are poured around him ; and does not feel the full weight of those 
accidental evils which may befall him. 

If we consider him in relation to "the persons with whom he con- 
verses, it naturally produces love and good-will towards him. A 
cheerful mifftl is not only disposed to be affable and obliging, but 
raises the same good humour in those who come within its influence. 
A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why, with the cheer- 
fulness of his companion : it is like a sudden sunshine that awakens a 
secret delight in the mind, without her attending to it. The heart 
rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship 
and benevolence, towards the person who has so kindly an effect 
upon it. 

When I consider this cheerful state of the mind in its third rela 
ton, I cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual gratitude to th* 
^ rcat Author of nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit prais* 



3f Sequel' bo the English Reader. Parti 

and thanksgiving to Providence under all its dispensations. It U 
a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a 
secret approbation of the divine will in his conduct towards man. 

There are but two things, which, in my opinion, can reasonably 
deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is, the 
sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, 
can have no title to that evenness and tranquillity of mind, which 
are the health of the soul, and the natural effect of virtue and inno- 
cence. Cheerfulness in a bad man deserves a harder name than 
language can furnish us with, and is many degrees beyond what 
we commonly call folly or madness. 

Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being, and 
consequently of a future state, under whatsoever title it shelters itself, 
may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of 
temper. There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive 
to human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I cannot but 
wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is possible for a man 
to outlive the expectation of it. For my own part, I think the be 
iug of a God is so little to be doubted, that it is almost the only 
truth we are sure of; and such a truth as we meet with in every oh 
ject, in every occurrence, and in every thought. If we look into 
the characters of this tribe of infidels, we generally find they are 
made up of pride, spleen, and cavil. It is indeed no wonder, that 
men, who are uneasy in themselves, should be so to the rest of the 
world : and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy 
rn himself, who is in danger every moment of losing his entire exist* 
ence, and dropping into nothing ? 

The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pretence to cheer- 
fulness, and would act very unreasonably, should they endeavour af- 
ter it. It is impossible for any one to live in good humour, and en~ 
joy his present existence, who is apprehensive either of torment oi 
of annihilation j of being miserable, or of not being at all. 
*After having mentioned these two great principles, which are de- 
structive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as in right rea 
son, I cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy tern 
per from a virtiwus mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, 
poverty and old age, nay, death itself, considering the shortness of 
their duration, and the advantage we may reap from them, do not 
deserve the name of evils. A good mind may bear up under them 
with fortitude, with tranquillity, and with cheerful«fess of heart 
The tossing of a tempest does not discompose a man, who is sure it 
will bring him to a- joyful harbour. 

He who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictate* 
of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources of cheerful- 
ness, in the consideration of his own nature, and of that Being on 
whom he has a dependence. If he looks into himself, he cannot 
but rejoice in that existence, which was so lately bestowed upon 
him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in 
its beginning. How many selfjcongratulations naturally arise in 
the mind, when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity ; when 



Chap. 2. Didiutic Piece*. 33 

it takes a view of those improvable faculties, which in a few years 
and even at its first setting out, have made so considerable a pro- 
gress, and which will be still receiving an increase of perfection, and 
consequently an increase of happiness ! The consciousness of such 
a being causes a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of n 
virtuous man ; and makes him feel as much happiness as he is capa- 
ble of conceiving. 

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind, is, its consider 
ation of that Being on whom we have our dependence, and in whom 
though Ave behold him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his 
perfections, we see every tiling that we can imagine as great, glori- 
ous, or amiable. We find ourselves every where upheld by his 
goodness, and surrounded with an immensity of love and mercy. 
In short, we depend upon a Being, whose power qualifies him to 
make us happy by an infinity of means ; whose goodness and truth 
engage him to make those happy who desire it of him ; and whose 
unchangeableness will secure for us this happiness to all eternity. 

Such considerations, which every one should perpetually cherish 
in his thoughts, will banish from us all that secret heaviness of heart, 
which unthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real 
affliction ; all that anguish which we mav feel from any evil that ac- 
tually oppresses us : to which I may likewise add, those little crack- 
lings of mirth and folly, that are apter to betray virtue than support 
it ; and establish in us so even and cheerful a temper, as will make 
us pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we converse, and to 
(Tim whom we are made to please. Addison. 

SECTION III. 
Happy effects of contemplating the works of nature. 

With the Divine works we are in every place surrounded. V>« 
can cast our eyes no where, without discerning the hand of Him 
who formed them, if the grossness of our minds will only allow us 
to behold Him. Let giddy and thoughtless men turn aside a little 
from the haunts of riot. Let them stand still, and contemplate 
the wondrous works of God ; and make trial of the effect which 
such contemplation would produce. — It were good for them that, 
even independently of the Author, they were more acquainted with 
his works ; go€d for them, that from the societies of loose and dis- 
so'ute men, they would retreat to the scenes of nature ; would 
oftener dwell among them, and enjoy their beauties. This would 
form them to the relish of uncorrupted, innocent pleasures ; and 
make them feel the value of calm enjoyments, as superior to tlte 
uoise and turbulence of licentious gaiety. From the harmony of 
nature, and of nature's works, they would learn to hear sweeter 
sounds than those which arise from " the viol, the tab ret, and the 
pipe." 

But to higher and more serious thoughts these works of nature 
pve occasion, when considered in conjunction with the Creator who 
made them. — L/et me call on you, my friends, to catch some interval 



34 Sequel to the English Header. Part 1 

of reflection, some serious moment, for looking- with thoughtful eye 
on the world around you. Lift your view to that immense arch of 
heaven which encompasses you above. Behold the sun in all his 
splendour rolling - over your head by day ; and the moon by night, 
in mild and serene majesty, surrounded with the host of stars which 
present to your imagination an innumerable multitude of worlds. 
Listen to the awful voice of thunder. Listen to the roar of the 
tempest and the ocean. Survey the wonders that fill the earth which 
you inhabit. Contemplate a steady and powerful Hand, bringing 
round spring and summer, autumn and winter, in regular course ; 
decorating this earth with innumerable beauties diversifying it with 
innumerable inhabitants ; pouring forth comforts on all that live ; 
and at the same time, overawing the nations with the violence of 
the elements, when it pleases the Creator to let them forth. After 
you have viewed yourselves as surrounded with such a scene of 
wonders ; after you have beheld, on every hand, so astonishing a 
display of majesty united with wisdom and goodness ; are you not 
o-eized with solemn and serious awe ? Is there not something which 
whispers within, that to this great Creator reverence and homage 
are due, by all the rational beings whom he has made ? Admitted to 
be spectators of his works, placed in the midst of so many great and 
interesting objects, can you believe that you were brought hither 
for no purpose, but to immerse yourselves in gross and brutal, or, at 
best, in trifling pleasures ; lost to all sense of the wonders you be- 
nold ; lost to all reverence of that God who gave you being, and 
who has erected this amazing fabric of nature, on which you look 
unly with stupid and unmeaning eyes ?— No : let the scenes which 
you behold prompt correspondent feelings. Let them awaken you 
from the degrading intoxication of licentiousness, into nobler emo. 
tions. Every object which you view in nature, whether great or 
small, serves to instruct you. The star and the insect, the fiery 
meteor and the flower of spring, the verdant field and the lofty 
mountain, all exhibit a supreme Power, before which 3'ou ought to 
tremble and adore ; all preach the doctrine, all inspire the spirit of 
devotion and reverence. Regarding, then, the work of the Lord, 
let rising emotions of awe and gratitude call forth from your soula 
such sentiments as these : " Lord, wherever I am, and whatever I 
enjoy, may I never forget thee, as the Author of nature ! May I 
never forget that I am thy creature and thy subject 1. In this magnU 
ficent temple of the universe, where thou hast placed me, may J 
ever be thy faithful worshipper ; and may the reverence and the 
fear of God be the first sentiments of my heart l n blair. 

SECTION IV. 

Reflections on the universal presence of the Deity, 

In one of my late papers, I had occasion to consider the ubiquity 
of the Godhead, and at the same time to show, that as he is present 
to every thing, he cannot but be attentive to every thing, and privy 
to all the modes and parts of i.t.3 existence ; or, in other words, that 






\Jkctp. t. Didactic Pieces. 35 

his omniscience and omnipresence are co-existent, and run together 
through the whole infinitude of space. This consideration might 
furnish us with many incentives to devotion, and motives to morali- 
ty ; but as this subject has been handled by several excellent wri- 
ters, I shall consider it in a light in which 1 have not seen it placed 
by others. 

First, How disconsolate is the condition of an intellectual being, 
who is thus present with his Maker, but at the same time receivea 
no extraordinary benefit or advantage from his presence ! 

Secondly, How deplorable is the condition of an intellectual being, 
who feels no other effects from his presence, than such as proceed 
from divine wrath and indignation ! 

Thirdly, How happy is the condition of that intellectual being, 
who is sensible of his Maker's presence, from the secret effects of 
nis mercy and loving-kindness ! 

First, How disconsolate is the condition of an intellectual being, 
who is thus present with his Maker, but at the same time receives 
no extraordinary benefit or advantage from his presence .' Every 
particle of matter is actuated by this Almighty Being which passes 
thrwugh it. The heavens and the earth, the stars and planets, move 
and gravitate by virtue of this great principle within them. All the 
dead parts of nature are invigorated by the presence of their Crea- 
tor, and made capable of exerting their respective qualities. The 
several instincts, in the brute creation, do likewise operate and 
work towards the several ends which are agreeable to them, by this 
divine energy. Man only, who does not co-operate with his holy 
spirit, and is inattentive to his presence, receives none of those ad- 
vantages from it, which are perfective of his nature, and necessary to 
his well-being. The Divinity is with him, and in him, and every 
where about him, but of no advantage to him Ii is the same, thing 
to a man without religion, as if there were no God in the world. It 
is indeed impossible for an infinite Being to remove himself from 
any of his creatures; but though he cannot withdraw his essence 
from us, which would argue an imperfection in him, he can with, 
draw from us all the joys and consolations of it. His presence may 
perhaps be necessary to support us in our existence ; but he may 
leave this our existence to itself, with regard to its happiness or 
misery. For, in this sense, he ma^cast us away from his presence, 
and take his holy spirit from us. This single consideration one would 
think sufficient to make us open our hearts to all those infusions of 
joy and gladness, which are so near at hand, and ready to be poured 
in upon us : especially when we consider, 

Secondly, The deplorable condition of an intellectual being, wlw 
feels no other effects from his Maker's presence, than such as pro. 
ceed from divine wrath and indignation. We may assure ourselves 
tha' the great Author of nature will not always be as one who h 
indifferent to any of his creatures. They who will not feel him in 
his love, will be sure at length to feel him in his displeasure. And 
how dreadful is the condition of that creature, who is sensible of the 
being of his Creator, only by what he suffers from him ? He is as 



36 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

essentially present in hell as in heaven ; but the inhabitants of those 
dismal regions behold him only in his wrath, and shrink within the 
flames to conceal themselves from him. It is not in the power of 
imagination to conceive the fearful effects of Omnipotence incensed. 

But I shall only consider the wretchedness of an intellectual be- 
ing, that, in this life, lies under the displeasure of him, who, at all 
times, and in all places, is intimately united with him. He is able 
to disquiet the soul, and vex it in all its faculties. He can hinder 
any of the greatest comforts of life from refreshing us, and give an 
edge to every one of its slightest calamities. Who then can bear 
the thought of being an outcast from his presence, that is, from the 
comforts of it, or of feeling it only in its terrors ? How pathetic is 
that expostulation of Job, when for the real ti ial of his patience, he 
was made to look upon himself in this deplorable condition ! " Why 
hast thou set me as a mark against thee, so that I am become a 
burthen to myself?" 

But, thirdly, how happy is the condition of that intellectual be» 
ing, who is sensible of his Maker's presence, from the secret effects 
of his mercy and loving-kindness ! The blessed in heaven behold 
him face to face, that is, are as sensible of his presence as we are of 
the presence of any person whom we look upon with our eyes. 
There is doubtless a faculty in spirits, by which they apprehend one 
another, as our senses do material objects ; and there is no question 
but our souls, when they are disembodied, or placed in glorified 
bodies, will, by this faculty, in whatever part of space they reside, 
be always sensible of the divine presence. We, who have this veil 
of flesh standing between us and the world of spirits, must be con- 
tent to know that the spirit of God is present with us, by the effects 
which he produces in U3. Our outward senses are too gross to ap- 
prehend him. We may, however, taste and see how gracious he is, 
by his influence upon our minds ; by those virtuous thoughts which 
he awakens in us ; by those secret comforts and refreshments which 
he conveys into our souls ; and by those ravishing joys and inward 
satisfactions which are frequently springing up, and diffusing them- 
selves among the thoughts of good men. He is lodged in our very 
essence, and is as a soul within the soul, to irradiate its understand- 
ing, rectify its will, purify its passions, and enliven all the powers of 
man. How happy therefore is an intellectual being, who, by prayer 
and meditation, by virtue and good works, opens this communica- 
tion between God and his own soul ! Though the whole creation 
frowns, and all nature looks black about him, he has his light and 
support within, that are able to cheer his mind, and bear him up in 
the midst of all those horrors which encompass him. lie knows 
that his helper is at hand, and is always nearer to him than any 
thing can be, which is capable of annoying or terrifying him. In 
the midst of calumny or contempt, he attends to that Being who 
whispers better things within his soul, and whom he looks upon as 
Ins defender, his glory, and the lifter-up of his head. In his deepest 
solitude and retirement, he knows that he is in company with the 
-reatest of beings ; and perceives within himseH". such real sensa- 



Chap. 3. Argumentative Pieces. 37 

tions of his presence, as are more delightful than any thing that can 
be met with in the conversation of his creatures. Even in the hour 
of death, he considers the pains of his dissolution to be only the 
breaking 1 down of that partition, which stands betwixt his soul and the 
sight of that Being; who is always present with him, and is about to 
manifest itself to him in fulness of joy. 

If we would be thus happy, and thus sensible of our Maker's 
presence, from the secret effects of his mercy and goodness, we 
must keep such a watch over all our thoughts, that in the language 
of the Scripture, his soul may have pleasure in us. We must take 
eare not to grieve his holy spirit, and endeavour to make the medi- 
tations of our hearts always acceptable in his sight, that he may 
delight thus to reside and dwell in us. The light of nature could 
direct Seneca to this doctrine, in a very remarkable passage in one 
of his epistles : " There is (says he) a holy spirit residing in us, who 
watches and observes both good and evil men, and will treat us after 
the same manner that we treat him." But I shall conclude this dis- 
course with those more emphatical words in divine revelation : " If 
a man love me, he will keep my words ; and my Father will love 
him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him. n 

ADDISON. 



CHAPTER III. 

ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Our imperfect knowledge of a future state, suited to the condition 
of man. 

THE sceptic, who is dissatisfied with the obscurity which Divine 
Providence has wisely thrown over the future state, conceives thai 
more information would be reasonable and salutary. He desires te 
fcave his view enlarged beyond the limits of this corporeal scene 
Instead of resting upon evidence which requires discussion, which 
«nust be supported by much reasoning, and which, after all, he al- 
leges yields very imperfect information, he demands the everlasting 
mansions to be so displayed, as to place faith on a level with the evi- 
dence of sense. What noble and happy effects, he exclaims, would 
instantly follow, if man thus beheld his present and his future exist- 
ence at once before him ! He would then become worthy of his 
rank in the creation. Instead of being the sport, as now, of degrad- 
ing passions and childish attachments, he would act solely on the 
principles of immortality. His pursuit of virtue would be steady ; 
his life would be undisturbed and happy. Superior to the attacks 
of distress, and to the solicitations of pleasure, he would advance, 
by a regular progress, towards those divine rewards and honours 
which were continually present to his view. — Thus fancy, with as 

D 



38 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 2 

much ease and confidence as if it were a perfect judge of creation, 
erects a new world to itself, and exults with admiration of its own 
work. But let us pause, and suspend this admiration, till we coolly 
examine the consequences that would follow from this supposed re 
formation of the universe. 

Consider the nature and circumstances of man. Introduced into 
the world in an indigent condition, he is supported at first by the 
care of others ; and, as soon as he begins to act for himself, finds la- 
bour and industry to be necessary for sustaining his life, and supply- 
ing his wants. Mutual defence and interest give rise to society ; and 
society, when formed, requires distinctions of property, diversity of 
conditions, subordination of ranks, and a multiplicity of occupations, 
in order to advance the general good. The services of the poor, and 
the protection of the rich, becomes reciprocally necessary. The 
governors and the governed, must co-operate for general safety. 
Various arts must be studied ; some respecting the cultivation of the 
mind, others the care of the body ; some to ward off the evils, and 
some to provide the conveniences of life. In a word, by the desti. 
nation of his Creator, and the necessities of his nature, man com- 
mences, at once, an active, not merely a contemplative being. 
Religion assumes him as such. It supposes him employed in this 
world, as on a bus}*- stage. It regulates, but does not abolish, the en- 
terprises and cares of ordinary life. It addresses itself to the various 
ranks in society ; to the rich and the poor, to the magistrate and the 
subject. It rebukes the slothful ; directs the diligent how to labour ; 
and requires every man to do his own business. 

Suppose, now, that veil to be withdrawn which conceals another 
world from our view. Let all obscurity vanish ; let us no longer 
'* see darkly, as through a glass ;" but let every man enjoy that 
intuitive perception of divine and eternal objects, which the sceptic 
was supposed to desire. The immediate effect of such a discovery 
would be, to annihilate in our eye all human objects, and to pro. 
duce a total stagnation in the affairs of the world. Were the 
celestial glory exposed to our admiring view ; did the angelic har- 
mony sound in our enraptured ears ; what earthly concerns could 
have the power of engaging our attention for a single moment ? 
All the studies and pursuits, the arts and labours, which now em- 
ploy the activity of man, which support the order, or promote the 
happiness of society, would lie neglected and abandoned. Those 
desires and fears, those hopes and interests, by which we are at 
present stimulated, would cease to operate. Human life would 
present no objects sufficient to rouse the mind; to kindle the 
spirit of enterprise, or to urge the hand of industry. If the mere 
sense of duty engaged a good man to take some part in the busi- 
ness of the world, the task, when submitted to, would prove distaste- 
ful. Even the preservation of life would be slighted, if he were 
not bound to it by the authority of God. Impatient of his con- 
finement within this tabernacle of dust, languishing for the hap- 
py day of hi? translation to those glorious regions which were dis- 
played to his sight, he would sojourn on earth as a malancholy 



Chap. 3. Argumentative Pieces. S9 

exile. Whatever Providence has prepared for the entertainment 
of man, would be viewed with contempt. Whatever is now attrac- 
tive in society, would appear insipid. In a word, he would be no 
longer a fit inhabitant of this world, nor be qualified for those *>x» 
ertions which are allotted to him in his present sphere of being*. 
But, all his faculties being sublimated above the measure of hu- 
manity, he would be in the condition of a being- of superior order, 
who, obliged to reside among men, would regard their pursuits 
with scorn, as dreams, trifles, and puerile amusements of a day. 

But to this reasoning it may perhaps be replied, that such con 
sequences as I have now stated, supposing them to follow, deserve 
not much regard. — For what though the present arrangement of 
human affairs were entirely changed, by a clearer view, and a 
stronger impression of our future state ; would not such a change 
prove the highest blessing to man ? Is not his attachment to worldly 
objects the great source both of his misery and his guilt ? Employ- 
ed in perpetual contemplation of heavenly objects, and in prepara- 
tion for the enjoyment of them, would he not become more virtuous, 
and of course more happy, than the nature of his present employ- 
ments and attachments permits him to be ?— Allowing for a moment, 
the consequence to be such, this much is yielded, that upon the 
supposition which was made, man would not be the creature which 
he now is, nor human life the state which we now behold. How far 
the change would contribute to his welfare, comes to be considered. 

If there be any principle fully ascertained by religion, it is that 
this life was intended for a state of trial and improvement to man. 
His preparation for a better world required a gradual purification, 
carried on by steps of progressive discipline. The situation, there- 
fore, here assigned him, was such as to answer this design, by call 
ing forth all his active powers, by giving full scope to his moral dis 
positions, and bringing to light his whole character. Hence it be 
came proper, that difficulty and temptation should arise in the course 
of his duty. Ample rewards were promised to virtue ; but these re- 
wards were left, as yet, in obscurity and distant prospect. The im- 
pressions of sense were so balanced against the discoveries of immor- 
tality, as to allow a conflict between faith and sense, between con- 
science and desire, between present pleasure and future good. In 
this conflict, the souls of good men are tried, improved, and strength- 
ened. In this field, their honours are reaped. Here are formed the 
capital virtues of fortitude, temperance, and self-denial ; moderation 
in prosperity, patience in adversity, submission to the will of God, 
and charity and forgiveness to men, amid&t the various competitions 
of worldly interest. 

Such is the plan of Divine wisdom for man's improvement. But 
put the case, that the plan devised by human wisdom were to take 
place, and that the rewards of the just were to be more fully display 
ed to view ; the exercise of all those graces which I have mentioned, 
would be entirely superseded. Their very names would be unknown. 
Every temptation being withdrawn, every worldly attachment be 
m% subdued by the overpowering discoveries of eternity, no trial of 



40 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari I, 

sincerity, no discrimination of characters, would remain ; no oppor 
tunity would be afforded for those active exertions, which are tlifl 
means of purifying and perfecting- the good. On the competitic n 
between time and eternity, depends the chief exercise of human 
virtue. The obscurity winch at present hangs over eternal object^ 
preserves the competition. Remove that obscurity, and you re» 
move human virtue from its place. You overthrow that whole sys* 
tem of discipline by which imperfect creatures are, in this life, gra- 
dually trained up for a more perfect state. 

This, then, is the conclusion to which at last we arrive : that the 
*ull display which was demanded, of the heavenly glory, would be 
so far from improving the human soul, that it would abolish those 
virtues and duties, which are the great instruments of its improve* 
ment. It would be unsuitable to the character of man in every 
view, either as an active being, or a moral agent. It would dis- 
qualify him from taking part in the affairs of the world ; for re- 
lishing the pleasures, or for discharging the duties of life : in a 
word, it would entirely defeat the purpose of his being placed on 
this earth. And the question, why the Almighty has been pleased 
to leave a spiritual world, and the future existence of man un- 
der so much obscurity, resolves in the end into this, why there 
should be such a creature as man in the universe of God ? — Such 
is the Issue of the improvements proposed to be made on the plans 
of Providence. They add to the discoveries of the superior wis- 
dom of God, and of the presumption and folly of man. blair. 

SECTION II. 

Youth is the proper season for gaining 1 knowledge, andfortning re 
ligious habits. 

The duty which young people owe to their instructors, cannot 
be better shown, than in the effect which the instructions they re- 
ceive have upon them. They would do well, therefore, to consider 
the advantages of an early attention to these two things, both of 
great importance, knowledge and religion. 

The great use of knowledge, in all its various branches, (to which 
the learned languages are generally considered as an introduction,) 
is to free the mind from the prejudices of ignorance; and to gife 
it juster and more enlarged conceptions, than are the mere growth 
of rude nature. By reading, we add the experience of others to our 
own. It is the improvement of the mind chiefly, that makes the 
difference between man and man ; and gives one man a real supe 
riority over another. 

Besides, the mind must be employed. The lower orders of men 
have their attention much engrossed by those employments, is 
which the necessities of life engage them : and it is happy that thej 
have. Labour stands in the room of education ; and fills up thos* 
vacancies of mind, which in a state of idleness, would be engrossed 
by vice. And if they, who have more leisure, do not substitute 
something in the room of this, their minds also will become the prof 



Chap. Si Argumentative Pieces. 4 

of vice ; and the more so, as they have the means to indulge it more 
in their power. A vacant mind is exactly that house mentioned in 
the gospel, which the devil found empty. In he entered ; and tak- 
ing with him seven other spirits more wicked than himself, they 
took possession. It is an undoubted truth, that one vice indulged, 
introduces others; and that each succeeding vice becomes more 
depraved. If then the mind must be employed, what can fill up its 
vacuities more rationally than the acquisition of knowledge ? Lei 
H3 therefore thank God for the opportunities he has afforded us 
and not turn into a curse those means of leisure, which might be 
come so great a blessing. 

But however necessary to us knowledge may be, religion we 
know, is infinitely more so. The one adorns a man, and gives him, 
it is true, superiority, and rank in life : but the other is absolutely 
essential to his happiness. 

In the midst of youth, health, and abundance, the world is apt to 
appear a very gay and pleasing scene : it engages our desires ; and, 
in a degree, satisfies them also. But it is wisdom to consider, that 
a time will come, when youth, health, and fortune, will all fail us : 
and if disappointment and vexation do not sour our taste for plea- 
sure, at least sickness and infirmities will destroy it. In these 
gloomy seasons, and above all, at the approach of death, what will 
become of us without religion ? When this world f ails, where shall 
we fly, if we expect no refuge in another ? Without holy hope in 
God, and resignation to his will, and trust in him for deliverance, 
what is there that can secure us against the evils of life ? 

The great utility therefore of knowledge and religion being thus 
apparent, it is highly incumbent upon us to pay a studious attention 
to them in our youth. If we do not, it is more than probable that 
we shall never do it : that we shall grow old in ignorance, by neg- 
lecting the one ; and old in vice, by neglecting the other. 

For improvement in knowledge, youth is certainly the fittest sea- 
son. The mind is then ready to receive any impression. It is free 
from all that care and attention which, in riper age, the affairs of 
life bring with them. The memory too is stronger and better able 
to acquire the rudiments of knowledge ; and as the mind is then void 
of ideas, it is more suited to those parts of learning which are con- 
versant in words. Besides, there are sometimes in youth a modesty 
and ductility, which, in advanced years, if those years especially 
have been left a prey to ignorance, become self-sufficiency and pre- 
judice ; and these effectually bar up all the inlets to knowledge. — 
But above all, unless habits of attention and application are early 
gained, we shall scarcely acquire them afterwards. — The inconr 
siderate youth seldom reflects upon this ; nor knows his loss, till ho 
knows also that it cannot be retrieved. 

Nor is youth more the season to acquire knowledge, than to form 
religious habits. It is a great point to get habit on the side of virtue 
it will make every thing smooth and easy. The earliest principles 
are generally the most lasting ; and those of a religious cast ara 
seldom wholly lost. Though the temptations of the world mar. 



42 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I 

now and then, draw the well-principled j r outh aside ; yet his princi. 
pies being continually at war with his practice, there is hope, thai 
in the end the better part may overcome the worse, and bring- on a 
reformation : whereas he, who has suffered habits of vice to get 
possession of his youth, has little chance of being- brought back to 
a sense of religion. In the common course of thing-s it can rarely 
happen. Some calamity must rouse him. He must be awakened bv 
a storm, or sleep forever. How much better is it then to make 
that easy to us, which we know is best ; and to form those habitt 
now, which hereafter we shall wish we had formed ! 

There are persons, who would restrain youth from imbibing- any 
religious principles, till they can judge for themselves ; lest thej 
. should imbibe prejudice for truth. But why should not the sam© 
oaution be used in science also : and the minds of youth left void 
of all impressions ? The experiment, I fear, in both cases, would 
be dangerous. If the mind were left uncultivated during so long 
a period, though nothing else should find entrance, vice certainly 
would : and it would make the larger shoots, as the soil would be 
vacant. It would be better that young persons receive knowledge 
and religion mixed with error, than none at all. For when the 
raind comes to reflect, it may deposite its prejudices by degrees, and 
get right at last : but in a state of stagnation it will infallibly be- 
come foul. 

To conclude, our youth bears the same proportion to our more 
advanced life, as this world does to the next. In this life, we must 
form and cultivate those habits of virtue, which will qualify us for 
a better state. If we neglect them here, and contract habits of an 
opposi'e kind, instead of gaining that exalted state, which is pro» 
mised to our improvement, we shall of course sink into that state, 
which is adapted to ..he habits we have formed. 

Exactly thus is youth introductory into manhood ; to which it 
is, f t 'operly speaking, a state of preparation. During this season 
we must qualify ourselves for the parts we are to act hereafter. In 
manhood we bear the fruit, which has in youtii been planted. If 
we have saunterod away our youth, we must expect to be ignorant 
men. If indolence and inattention have taken an early possession 
of us, Jiey will probably increase as we advance in life ; and make 
us a burden to ourselves, and useless to society. If again, we suffer 
ourselves to be misled by vicious inclinations, they will daily get 
new strength, and end in dissolute lives. But if we cultivate our 
minds in youth, attain habits of attention and industry, of virtue 
and sobriety, we shall find ourselves well prepared to act our fu 
ture parts in life ; and, what above all things ought to be our care, 
by gaining this command over ourselves, we shall be more able, 
as we get forward in the w *r\& % «o r-^fct every new temptation, at 
foou as it appears 

GfLFIN. 



Chap. 3. Argumentative Pieces 43 

SECTION III. 

The truth of Christianity proved from the conversion of the Apostle 
Paul* 

The conversion of St. Paul, with all its attendant circumstances, 
furnishes one of the most satisfactory proofs, that have ever been 
given, of the Divine origin of our holy religion. That this eminent 
person, from being a zealous persecutor of the disciples of Christ, 
became, all at once, a disciple himself, is a fact which cannot be 
controverted, without overturning the credit of all history. He 
must, therefore, have been converted in the miraculous manner alleg- 
ed by himself, and of course the Christian religion be a Divine re. 
velation ; or he must have been an impostor, an enthusiast, or a dupe • 
to the fraud of others. There is not another alternative possible. 
If he was an impostor, who declared what he knew to be false, 
he must have been induced to act that part, by some motive. But 
the only conceivable motives for religious imposture, are, the hopes 
of advancing one's temporal interest, credit, or power ; or the pros- 
pect of gratifying some passion or appetite, under the authority of 
the new religion. That none of these could be St. Paul's motive 
for professing the faith of Christ crucified, is plain from the stale 
of Judaism and Christianity, at the period of his forsaking the form- 
er, and embracing the latter faith. Those whom he left, weie 
the disposers of wealth, of dignity, of power, in Judea : thee 
to whom he went, were indigent men, oppressed, and kept fro n 
all means of improving their fortunes. The certain consequence, 
therefore, of his taking the part of Christianity, was the loss 
not only of all that he possessed, but of all hopes of acquiring 
more : whereas, by continuing to persecute the Christians, he had 
aopes, rising almost to certainty, of making his fortune by the fa- 
vour of those who were at the head of the Jewish state, to whom 
nothing could so much recommend him, as the zeal which he had 
shown in that persecution. — As to credit or reputation, could the 
scholar of Gamaliel hope to gain either, by becoming a teacher in a 
college of fishermen? Could he flatter himself, that the doctrines 
which he taught would, either in or out of Judea, do him honour, 
when he knew that " they were to the Jews a stumblingblock, and 
to the Greeks foolishness ?" — Was it then the love of power, that in 
duced him to make this great change? Power ! over whom ? over a 
flock of sheep, whom he himself had endeavoured to destroy, and 
whose very Shepherd had lately been murdered ! Perhaps it was with 
the view of gratifying some licentious passion, under the authority of 
the new religion, that he commenced a teacher of that religion I 
This cannot be alleged : for his writings breathe nothing but tike 
strictest morality ; obedience to magistrates, order, andgovernment* 
with the utmost abhorrence of all licentiousness, idleness, or loose be- 

* This piece is extracted from the " Encyclopaedia Britannica." It ic 
«n abridgment of Lord Lyttleton's celebrated " Observations oa titt 
Conversion of St. Paul n 



44 Sequel to tut iLngUm Reader Part X 

haviour, Under the cloak of religion. We no where read in hi» 
works, that saints are above moral ordinances ; that dominion is 
founded in grace ; that monarchy is despotism which ought ta be 
abolished ; that the fortunes of the rich ought to be divided atttong 
the poor ; that there is no difference in moral actions ; that an> irn 
pulses of the mind are to direct us against the light of revealeJl re- 
ligion and the laws of nature ; or any of those wicked tenet*, by 
which the peace of society has been often disturbed, and the lulef 
of morality have been often violated, by men pretending to act un 
der the sanction of Divine revelation. He makes no distinctions, 
like the impostor of Arabia, in favour of himself; nor does any part 
of his life, either before or alter his conversion to Christianity, beai 
any mark of a libertine disposition. As among the Jews, so among 
the Christians, his conversation and manners were blameless. 

As St. Paul was not an impostor, so it is plain he was not an en 
thusiast. Heat of temper, melancholy, ignorance, credulity, and 
vanity, are the ingredients of which enthusiasm is composed : but 
from all these, except the first, the apostle appear^ to have been 
wholly free. That he had great fervour of zeal, both when a Jew 
and when a Christian, in maintaining what he thought to be right, 
cannot be denied ; but he was at ell times so much master of his 
temper, as, in matters of indifference, to " become all things to all 
men ;" with the most pliant condescension, bending his notions and 
manners to theirs, as far as his duty to God would permit ; a conduct 
compatible neither with the stiffness of a bigot, nor with the violent 
impulses of fanatical delusion. — That he was not melancholy, is 
plain from his conduct in embracing every method, which prudence 
could suggest, to escape danger and shun persecution, when he 
could do it, without betraying the duty of his office, or the honour of 
flis God. A melancholy enthusiast courts persecution ; and wheD 
he cannot obtain it, afflicts himself with absurd penances; but the 
holiness of St. Paul consisted in the simplicity of a pious life, and in 
the unwearied performance of his apostolical duties. That he was 
ignorant, no man will allege who is not grossly ignorant himself; for 
he appears to have been master, not only of the Jewish learning, but 
also of the Greek philosophy, and to have been very conversant even 
with the Greek poets. That he was not credulous, is plain from hie 
having resisted the evidence of all the miracles performed on earth 
by Christ, as well as those that were afterwards worked by the apos. 
ties ; to the fame of which, as he lived in Jerusalem, he could not 
have been a stranger. — And that he was as free from vanity as any 
man that ever lived, may be gathered from all that we see in his wri 
tings, or know of his life. He represents himself as the least of th« 
apostles, and not meet to be called an apostle. He says that he k 
the chief of sinners ; and he prefers, in the strongest lerrns, universal 
oenevolence to faith, and prophecy, and miracles, and all the gifts 
and graces with which he could be endowed. Is this the language 
of vanity or enthusiasm ? 

Having thus shown that St. Paul was neither an impostor nor an 
enthusiast, it remains onlv to be inquired, whether he was deceived 



Chap 4. Descriptive Pieces. 45 

by the fraud of others ; but this inquiry needs not be long ; for who 
was to deceive him ? A few illiterate fishermen of Galilee ? It was 
morally impossible for such men to conceive the thought of turning' 
the most enlightened of their opponents, and the cruellest of their 
persecutors, into an apostle ; and to do this by a fraud, in the very 
instant of his greatest fury against them and their Lord. But could 
they have been se extravagant as to conceive such a thought, it was 
physically impossible for them to execute it in the manner in which 
we find his conversion was effected. Could they produce a light in 
the air, which at mid-day was brighter than the sun ? Could they 
make Saul hear words from that light, which were not heard by the 
rest of the company ? Could they make him blind for three days 
after that vision, and then make scales fall from his eyes, and restore 
him to sight by a word ? Or, could they make him, and those who 
travelled with him, believe that all these things had happened, if they 
had not happened ? Most unquestionably no fraud was equal to all 
this. 

Since then St. Paul was not an impostor, an enthusiast, or a per 
«on deceived by the fraud of others, it follows, that his conversion 
was miraculous, and that the Christian religion is a Divine revelation 



CHAPTER IV. 

DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

The heavens and the earth show the glory and the wisdom of their 
Creator. — The earth happily adapted to the nature of man. 

THE universe may be considered as the palace in which the Deity 
resides ; and the earth, as one of its apartments. In this, all the 

leaner races of animated nature mechanically obey him ; and stand 
ready to execute his commands, without hesitation. Man alone is 
found refractory : he is the only being endued with a power of con- 
tradicting these mandates. The Deity was pleased to exert superior 
power in creating him a superior being ; a being endued with a 
choice of good and evil ; and capable, in some measure, of co-ope- 
rating with his own intentions. Man, therefore, may be considered 

s a limited creature, endued with powers imitative of those residing 
in the Deity. He is thrown into a world that stands in need of his 
help ; and he has been granted a power of producing harmony from 
partial confusion. 

If, therefore, we consider the earth as allotted for our habitation, 
we shall find, that much has been given us to enjoy, and much to 
amend ; that we have ample reasons for our gratitude, and many for 
our industry. In those great outlines of nature, to which art cannot 
reach, and where our greatest efforts must have been ineffectual, 
God himself has finished every thing with amazing grandeur and 



46 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari 1 

beauty. Our beneficent Father has considered these parts of nature 
as peculiarly his own ; as parts which no creature could have skill 
or strength to amend : and he has, therefore, made them incapable 
of alteration, or of more perfect regularity. The heavens and the 
firmament show the wisdom and the glory of the Workman. Astrono- 
mers, who are best skilled in the symmetry of systems, can find 
nothing there that they can alter for the better. God made these 
perfect, because no subordinate being could correct their defects. 

When, therefore, we survey nature on this side, nothing can be 
more splendid, more correct, or amazing. We there behold a Deity 
residing in the midst of a universe, infinitely extended every way, 
animating all, and cheering the vacuity with his presence. We 
behold an immense and shapeless mass of matter, formed into worlds 
by his power, and dispersed at intervals, to which even the imagin- 
ation cannot travel. In this great theatre of his glory, a thousand 
suns, like our own, animate their respective systems, appearing and 
vanishing at Divine command. We behold our own bright lumina- 
ry, fixed in the centre of its system, wheeling its planets in times 
proportioned to their distances, and at once dispensing light, heat, 
and action. The earth also is seen with its twofold motion ; prdT* 
ducing, by the one, the change of seasons ; and, by the other, the 
grateful vicissitudes of day and night. With what silent magnifi. 
cence is all this performed ! with what seeming ease ! The works 
of art are exerted with interrupted force ; and their noisy progress 
discovers the obstructions they receive ; but the earth, with a silent 
steady rotation, successively presents every part of its bosom to the 
sun ; at once imbibing nourishment and light from that parent of 
vegetation and fertility 

But not only provisions of heat and light are thus supplied ; the 
whole surface of the earth is covered with a transparent atmosphere, 
that turns with its motion, and guards it from external injury. The 
rays of the sun are thus broken into a genial warmth ; and, while the 
surface is assisted, a gentle heat is produced in the bowels of the 
earth, which contributes to cover it with verdure. Waters also are 
supplied in healthful abundance, to support life, and assist vegeta 
tion. Mountains rise, to diversify the prospect, and give a current 
to the stream. Seas extend from one continent to the other, reple 
nished with animals, that may be turned to human support ; and alsr 
serving to enrich the earth with a sufficiency of vapour. Breeze* 
fly along the surface of the fields, to promote health and vegetation 
The coolness of the evening invites to rest ; and the freshness of the 
morning renews for labour. 

Such are the delights of the habitation that has been assigned to 
man : without any one of these, he must have been wretched ; and 
none of these could his own industry have supplied. But while, on 
the one hand, many of his wants are thus kindly furnished, there 
are, on the other, numberless inconveniences to excite his industry. 
This habitation, thoug-h provided with all the conveniences of air, 
pasturage, and water, is but a desert place, without human cultiva. 
tion The lowest animal finds more conveniences in the wMs at 



Chap 4. Descriptive Pieret. 4/ 

nature, than he who boasts himself their lord. The whirlwind, the 
inundation, and all the asperities of the air, are peculiarly terrible to 
man, who knows their consequences, and, at a distance, dreads their 
approach. The earth itself, where human art has not pervaded, 
puts on a frightful, gloomy appearance. The forests are dark and 
iangled ; the meadows are overgrown with rank weeds ; and the 
brooks stray without a determined channel. Nature, that has been 
kind to every lower order tff beings, seems to have been neglectful 
with regard to him: to the savage uncontriving man, the earth is an 
abode of desolation, where his shelter is insufficient, and his food pre 
carious. 

A world thus furnished with advantages on one side, and incon 
veniences on the other, is the proper abode of reason, -and the fittest 
to exercise the industry of a free and a thinking creature. These 
evils, which art can remedy, and prescience guard against, are a 
proper call for the exertion of hie faculties ; and thuy tend still more 
to assimilate him to his Creator. God beholds, with pleasure, that 
being which he has made, converting the wretchedness of his natu- 
ral situation into a theatre of triumph ; bringing all the headlong 
tribes of nature into subjection to his will ; and producing that order 
and uniformity upon earth, of which his own heavenly fabric is so 
bright an example. goldsmith. 

SECTION IL 

An eruption of mount Vesuvius. 

In the year 1717, in the middle of April, with much difficulty \ 
reached the top of mount Vesuvius, in which I saw a vast aperture 
full of smoke, that hindered me from seeing its depth and figure. — 
I heard within that horrid gulph, extraordinary sounds, which seem 
ed to proceed from the bowels of the mountain : and, at intervals, a 
noise like that of thunder or cannon, with a clattering like the fall 
ing of tiles from the tops of houses into the streets. Sometimes, as 
the wind changed, the smoke grew thinner, discovering a very rud 
dy flame, and the circumference of the crater streaked with red and 
several shades of yellow. After an hour's stay, the smoke being 
moved by the wind, we had short and partial prospects of the great 
nollow ; in the flat bottom of which I could discern two furnaces 
almost contiguous : that on the left, seeming about three yards over, 
glowing with ruddy flame, and throwing up red hot stones, with a 
hideous noise, which, as they fell back, caused the clattering already 
taken notice of. May 8, in the morning, I ascended the top of 
Vesuvius a second time, and found a different face of things. The 
smoke ascending upright, afforded a full prospect of the crater, 
which, as far as I could judge, was about a mile in circumference, 
and a hundred yards deep. Since my last visit, a conical mount 
had been formed in the middle of the bottom. This was made by 
the stones, thrown up and fallen back again into the crater. In 
this new hill remained the two furnaces already mentioned. The 
ane nras seen to throw up every three or four minutes, with a dread- 



48 Sequel to the English Reader Pari 1 

ful sound, a vast number of red hot stones, at least three hundred 
feet higher than my head ; but as there was no wind, they fell per- 
pendicularly back from whence they had been discharged. The 
other was filled with red hot liquid matter, like that in the furnace 
of a glass house ; raging and working like the waves of the sea, with 
a short abrupt noise. This matter sometimes boiled over, and ran 
down the side of the conical hill, appearing at first red hot, but 
changing colour as it hardened and cooled. Had the wind set 
towards us, we should have been in no small danger of being stifled 
by the sulphurous smoke, or killed by the masses of melted minerals 
that were shot from the bottom. But as the wind was favourable, 1 
had an opportunity of surveying this amazing scene for above an 
hour and a half together. On the fifth of June, after a horrid noise, 
the mountain was seen at Naples to work over ; and about three 
days after, its thunders were so renewed, that not only the window? 
in the city, but all the houses shook. From that time, it continued 
to overflow, and sometimes at night exhibited columns of fire shoot, 
ing upward from its summit. On the tenth, when all was thought 
to be over, the mountain again renewed its terrors, roaring and 
raging most violently. One cannot form a juster idea of the noise, 
in the most violent fits of it, than by imagining a mixed sound, made 
up of the raging of a tempest, the murmur of a troubled sea, and 
the roaring of thunder and artillery, all confused together. Though 
we heard this at the distance of twelve miles, yet it was very terri 
tfle. We resolved to approach nearer to the mountain; and, 
accordingly, three or four of us entered a boat, and were set ashore 
at a little town, situated at the foot of the mountain. From thence 
we rode about four or five miles, before we came to the torrent of 
fire that was descending- from the side of the volcano ; and here tho 
roaring grew exceedingly loud and terrible. I observed a mixture 
of colours in the cloud, above the crater, green, yellow, red, blue. 
There was likewise a ruddy dismal light in the air, over that tract 
where the burning river flowed. These circumstances, set off and 
augmented by the horror of the night, formed a scene the most un- 
common and astonishing I ever saw ; which still increased as we 
approached the burning river. A vast torrent of liquid fire rolled 
from the top, down the side of the mountain, and with irresistible 
fury bore down and consumed vines, olives, and houses ; and divided 
into different channels, according to the inequalities of the moun- 
tain. The largest stream seemed at least half a mile broad, and five 
miles long. I walked before my companions so far up the mountain, 
along the side of the river of fire, that I was obliged to retire in 
great haste, the sulphurous steam having surprised me, and almost 
taken away my breath. During our return, which was about three 
o'clock in the morning, the roaring of the mountain was heard aU 
the way, while we observed it throwing up huge spouts of fire and 
burning stones, which falling, resembled the stars in a rocket. — 
Sometimes I observed two or three distinct columns of flame, and 
sometimes one only that was large enough to fill the whole crater 
These burning columns, and fierv stones, seemed to be shot a thou 



Chap. 4. Descriptive Piece*. 40 

sand feet perpendicular above the summit of the volcano. In tins 
manner the mountain continued raging for six or eight days after 
On the eighteenth of the same month the whole appearance ended, 
and Vesuvius remained perfectly quiet, without any visible smoke 
or flame. bishop berk lex 

SECTION III. 

Description of the preparations made by Xerxes, the Persian mo- 
narch, for invading Greece. 

In *he opening of spring, Xerxes directed his march towards the 
Hellespont, where his fleet lay in all their pomp, expecting his arri- 
val. When he came to this place, he was desirous of taking a survey 
of all his forces, which formed an army that was never equalled either 
before or since. It was composed of the most powerful nations of 
the East, and of people scarcely known to posterity, except by name 
The remotest India contributed its supplies, while the coldest tracts 
•)f Scythia sent their assistance. Medes, Persians, Bactrians, Ly- 
dians, Assyrians, Hyrcanians, and many other nations of various 
forms, complexions, languages, dresses, and arms, united in this 
grand expedition. The land army, which he brought out of Asia, 
consisted of seventeen hundred thousand foot, and four-score thou- 
sand horse. Three hundred thousand more that were added upon 
crossing the Hellespont, made his land forces all together amount to 
above two millions of men. His fleet, when it set out from Asia* 
consisted of twelve hundred and seven vessels,each carrying two 
hundred men. The Europeans augmented his fleet with a hundred 
and twenty vessels, each of which carried two hundred men. Be- 
sides these, there were two thousand smaller vessels fitted for carry- 
ing provisions and stores. The men contained in these, with the 
frrmer, amounted to six hundred thousand, so that the whole army 
might be said to amount to two millions and a half; which, with the 
women, slaves, and sut .lers, always accompanying a Persian army, 
might make the whole above five millions of souls : a number, if rightly 
conducted, capable of turning the greatest monarchy; but which, 
commanded by presumption and ignorance, served only to obstruct 
and embarrass each other. 

Lord of so many and such various subjects, Xerxes found a plea 
sure in reviewing his forces ; and was desirous of beholding a na 
val engagement, of which he had not hitherto been a spectator. *&<+ 
this end a throne was erected for him upon an eminence ; ana in tnat 
situation beholding the earth covered with his troops, and the sea 
crowded with his vessels, he felt a secret joy diffuse itself through his 
frame, from the consciousness of his own superior power. But all 
the workings of this monarch's mind were in the extreme : a sudden 
sadness soon took place of his pleasure; and dissolving in a shower 
of tears, he gave himself up to a reflection, that not one of so manj 
thousands wou!3 be alive a hundred years after. 

Artabanus, the king's uncle, who was much disposed to moralize 
on occurrences, took this occasion to dist tturse wit! him upon th« 

E 



50 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari J 

shortness and miseries of human life. Finding" this more distant 
stibject attended to, he spoke closely to the present occasion ; in. 
sinuated his doubts of the success of the expedition; urged the 
many inconveniences the army had to suffer, if not from the enemy, 
at least from their own numbers. He alleged, that plagues, fa 
mine, afid confusion, were the necessary attendants of such nngo 
vernable multitudes ; and that empty fame was the only reward o/ 
success. But it was now too late to turn this young monarch f-otr 
his purpose. Xerxes informed his monitor, that great actions w«r# 
always attended with proportionable danger : and that if his pre* e 
cessors had observed such scrupulous and timorous rules of Conduct 
the Persian empire would never have attained to its present heigfc » 
g( glory. 

Xerxes, in the mean time, had given orders to build a bridge of 
boats across the Hellespont, for transporting his army into Europe. 
This narrow strait, which now goes by the name of the Dardanelles, 
is nearly an English mile over. But soon after the completion of 
this work, a violent storm arising, the whole was broken and de- 
stroyed, and the labour was to be undertaken anew. The fury of 
Xerxes upon this disappointment, was attended with equal extrava 
gance and cruelty. His vengeance knew no bounds. The work- 
men who had undertaken the task, had their heads struck oiFby his 
order ; and that the sea itself might also know its duty, he ordered 
it to be lashed as a delinquent, and a pair of fetters to be thrown 
iuto it, to curb its future irregularities. Thus having given vent t© 
uis absurd resentment, two bridges were ordered to be built in the 
place of the former ; one for the army to pass over, and the other for 
the baggage and the beasts of burden. The workmen, now warned 
by the fate of their predecessors, undertook to give their labours 
greater stability. They placed three hundred and sixty vessels 
across the strait, some of them having three banks of oars and 
ethers fifty oars a piece. They then cast large anchors into the 
water on both sides, in order to fix these vessels against the violence 
of the winds, and the current. After this they drove large piles 
into the earth, with huge rings fastened to them, to which were tied 
six vast cables that went over each of the two bridges. Over all 
these they laid trunks of trees, cut purposely for that use, and flat 
boats again over them, fastened and joined together, so as to serve 
loi a floor or solid bottom. When the whole work was thus com- 
pleted, a day was appointed for their passing over ; and as soon as 
the first rays of the sun begau to appear, sweet odours of all kinds 
were abundantly scattered over the new work, and the way was 
strewed with myrtle. At the same time Xerxes poured out libations 
into the sea ; and turning his face towards the East, worshipped that 
bright luminary, which is the god of the Persians. Then, throwing 
the vessel which had held his libation into the sea, together with the 
golden cup and Persian scimetar, he went forward, and gave orders 
for the army to follow. The immense train was seven days and 
seven nights in passing over ; while those who were appointed to coo- 
tiuut the march, quickened the troops by lashing them along ; for 



Chap. 4. Descriptive Pieces. &* 

the soldiers of the East, at that time, and to this verj day, are treat- 
ed like slaves. 

This great arm}' having" landed in Europe, and being* joined there 
by the several nations that acknowledged the Persian power, Xerxes 
prepared for marching directly forward into Greece. After a varie- 
ty of disastrous and adverse events, suffered in the prosecution of 
nis vain-giorious design, this haughty monarch was compelled to re- 
linquish it. Leaving his generals to take care of the army, he has- 
tened back, with a small retinue, to the sea-side. When he arrir 
ed at the place, he found the bridge broken down by the violence of 
the waves, in a tempest that had lately happened there. He was, 
therefore, obliged to pass the strait in a small boat ; which manner 
of returning, being compared with the ostentatious method in which 
he had set out, rendered his disgrace still more poignant and afflict- 
ing. The army which he had ordered to follow him, having been 
unprovided with necessaries, suffered great hardships by the way 
After having consumed all the corn they could find, they were oblig- 
ed to live upon herbs, and even upon the bark and leaves of trees. 
Thus harassed and fatigued, a pestilence began to complete their 
misery ; and, after a fatiguing journey of forty-five days, in which 
they were pursued rather by vultures and beasts of prey, than by 
men, they came to the Hellespont, where they had crossed over; and 
marched from thence to Sardis. Such was the end of Xerxes' ex* 
pedition into Greece : a measure begun in pride and terminated in 
infamy. goldsmith* 

SECTION IV. 

Character of Martin Luther. 

As Luthbr was raised up by Providence to be the author of one of 
the greatest and most interesting* revolutions recorded in history, 
there is not perhaps any person, whose character has been drawn 
with such opposite colours. In his own age, one party, struck with 
horror and inflamed with rage, when they saw with what a daring 
hand he overturned every thing which they held to be sacred, or 
valued as beneficial, imputed to him not only all the defects and vices 
of a man, but the qualities of a demon. The other, warmed with 
admiration and gratitude, which they thought he merited, as the re- 
storer of light and liberty to the Christian church, ascribed to him 
perfections above the condition of humanity ; and viewed all his ae» 
tions with a veneration bordering on that which should be paid to 
those only who are guided by the immediate inspiration of Heaven, 
It is his own conduct, not the undistinguishing censure, nor the ex- 
aggerated praise of his contemporaries, which ought to regulate the 
opinions of the present age concerning him. Zeal for what he re- 
garded as truth, undaunted intrepidity to maintain it, abilities both 
natural and acquired to defend it, and unwearied industry to propias- 
gate it, are virtues which shine so conspicuously in every part of his 
behaviour, that even his enemies must allow him to have possessed 
♦teem in an eminent degree, To thes.e mav be added, with zqtml 



52 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari i 

justice, such purity, and even austerity of manners, as necame oue> 
who assumed the character of a reformer ; such sanctity of life as 
suited the doctrine which he delivered ; and disinterestedness so 
perfect, as affords no slight presumption of his sincerity. Superior 
to all selfish considerations, a stranger to the elegancies of life, and 
despising its pleasures, he left the honours and emoluments of the 
church to his diciples ; remaining satisfied himself in his original state 
of professor in the university, and pastor of the town of Wittemburg, 
with the moderate appointments annexed to these offices. 

His extraordinary qualities were alloyed with no inconsiderable 
mixture of human frailty, and human passions. These, however, 
were of such a nature, that they cannot be imputed to malevolence 
or corruption of heart, but seem to have taken their rise from the 
same source with many of his virtues. His mind, forcible and ve- 
hement in all its operations, roused by great objects, or agitated by 
violent passions, broke out, on many occasions, with an impetuosity 
which astonishes men of feebler spirits, or such as are placed in a 
more tranquil situation. By carrying some praiseworthy disposi- 
tions to ( xcess, he bordered sometimes on what was culpable, and 
Vrzs often betrayed into actions which exposed him to censure. His 
confidence that his own opinions were well founded, approached to 
arrogance ; his courage in asserting them, to rashness ; his firmness 
in adhering to them, to obstinacy ; and his zeal in confuting his ad- 
versaries, to rage and scurrility. Accustomed himself to consider 
every thing as subordinate to truth, he expected the same deference 
for it from other men ; and, without making any allowances for their 
timidity or prejudices, he poured forth against those who disappoint- 
ed lum in this particular, a torrent of invective mingled with con- 
tempt. Regardless of any distinction of rank or character, when his 
doctrines were attacked he chastised all his adversaries indiscrimi- 
nately, with the same rough hand : neither the royal dignity of Heiii y 
VIII. nor the eminent learning and ability of Erasmus, screened them 
from the abuse with which he treated Tetzel or Eccius. But these 
indecencies of which Luther was guilty must not be imputed wholly 
to the violence of his temper. They ought to be charged in part to 
the manners of the age. Among a rude people, unacquainted with 
those maxims, which, by putting continual restraint on the passions 
of individuals, have polished society, and rendered it agreeable, dis- 
putes of every kind were managed with heat ; and strong emotions 
were uttered in their natural language, without reserve or delicacy. 
At the same time, the works of learned men were all composed in 
Latin ; and they were not only authorized, by the example of emi- 
nent writers in that language, to use their antagonists with the most 
liberal scurrility ; but, in a dead tongue, indecencies of every kind 
appear less shocking than in a living language, whose idioms and 
phrases seem gross, because they are familiar. 

In passing judgment upon the characters of men, we ought to try 
them by the principles and maxims of their own age, not by those of 
another. For althougn virtue and vice are at all times the same- 
manners and customs vary continually* Same parts of Luther's bo 



Chap. 4 Descriptive Pieces. 53 

Uaviour, which to us appear most culpable, gave no disgust to hies 
contemporaries. It was even by some of those qualities which we 
are now apt to blame, that he was fitted for accomplishing- the great 
work which he undertook. To rouse mankind, when sunk in igno- 
rance or superstition, and to encounter the rage of bigotry armed 
with power, required the utmost vehemence of zeal, and a temper 
daring to excess. A gentle call would neither have reached, n©r 
have excited those to whom it was addressed. A spirit more amia* 
ble, but less vigorous than Luther's, would have shrunk from the 
dangers which he braved and surmounted. Towards the close of 
Luther's life, though without a perceptible declension of his zeal or 
abilities, the infirmities of his temper increased upon him, so that he 
daily grew more peevish, more irascible, and more impatient of contra- 
diction- Having lived to be witness of his own amazing success ; to 
see a great part of Europe embrace hi, doctrines ; and to shake the 
foundation of the Papal throne, before which the mightiest monarchs 
had trembled ; he discovered, on some occasions, symptoms of vanity 
and self-applause. He must have been indeed more than man, if, 
upon contemplating all that he actually accomplished, he had never 
felt any sentiment of this kind rising in his breast. 

Some time before his death he felt his strength declining, his coa 
stitution being worn out by a prodigious multiplicity of business, 
added to the labour of discharging his ministerial function with un- 
remitting diligence, to the fatigue of constant study, besides the 
composition of works as voluminous as if he had enjoyed uninte*. 
rupted leisure and retirement. His natural intrepidity did not fo*. 
sake him at the approach of death. His last conversation with his 
friends, was concerning the happiness reserved for good men in a 
future world ; of which he spoke with the fervour and delight na- 
tural to. one, who expected and wished to enter soon upon the en- 
joyment of it. ROBERTSON. 

SECTION V. 

The good and the bad man compared, in the season of adversity. 

Religion prepares the mind for encountering, wi*h fortitude, the 
most severe shocks of adversity ; whereas vice, by its natural influx 
ence on the temper, tends to produce dejection under the slightest 
trials. While worldly men enlarge their possessions, and extend 
their connexions, they imagine that they are strengthening them 
telves against all the possible vicissitudes of life. They say in their 
hearts, " My mountain stands strong, and I shall never be moved*" 
But so fatal is their delusion, that, instead of strengthening, thqy 
are weakening that which only can support them when those vicissi- 
tudes come. It is their mind which must then suppoit them; and 
their mind by their sensual attachments, is corrupted and enfeebled 
Addicted with intemperate fondness to the pleasures of the world, 
they incur two great and certain evils: they both exclude thenv 
•elves from every resource except the world ; and they increase their 
•ensibiJitv to every blow which comes upon them from that quarter 

R 2 



84 Sequel to Ike English Redder. Pan . 

They have neither principles nor temper which can stand thti 
assault of trouble. They have no principles which lead them to 
look beyond the ordinary rotation of events ; and therefore, When 
misfortunes involve them, the prospect must be comfortless on every 
side. Their crimes have disqualified them from looking' up to the 
assistance of any higher power than their own ability, or for relying 
on any better guide than their own wisdom. And as from principle 
they can derive no support, so in a temper corrupted by prosperity 
they find no relief. They have lost that moderation of mind which 
enables a wise man to accommodate himself to his situation. Lono 
fed with false hopes, they are exasperated and stung by every disap 
pointment. Luxurious and effeminate, they can bear no uneasiness. 
Prouv. and presumptuous, they can brook no opposition. By nou. 
rishing dispositions which so little suit tins uncertain state, they hav* 
infused a double portion of bitterness into the cup of wo ; they have 
sharpened the edge of that sword which is lifted up to smite them. — 
Strangers to all the temperate satisfactions of a good and pure mind ; 
strangers to every pleasure, except what was seasoned by vice or 
vanity, their adversity is to the last degree disconsolate. Health 
and opulence were the two pillars on which they rested. Shake 
either of them, and their whole edifice of hope and comfort falls. — 
Prostrate and forlorn, they are left on the ground ; obliged to join 
with the man of Ephraim, in his abject lamentation, " They have 
taken away my gods, which I have made, and what have I more ? n 
Such are the causes to which we must ascribe the broken spirits, the 
peevish temper, and impatient passions, that so often attend the de- 
clining age, or falling fortunes, of vicious men. 

But how different is the condition of a truly good man, in those 
trying situations of life ! Religion had gradually prepared his mind 
for all the events of this inconstant state. It had instructed him in 
the nature of true happiness. It had early weaned him from an 
undue love of the world, by discovering to him its vanity, and by 
setting higher prospects in his view. Afflictions do not attack him 
by surprise, and therefore do not overwhelm him. He was equip- 
ped for the storm, as well as the calm, in this dubious navigation of 
life. Under these conditions he knew himself to be brought hither ; 
that he was not always to retain the enjoyment of what he loved : 
and therefore he is not overcome by disappointment, when that 
which is mortal, dies ; when that which is mutable, begins to change ; 
and when that which he knew to be transient, passes away. 

All the principles which religion teaches, and all the habits which 
it forms, are favourable to strength of mind. It will be found, thai 
whatever purifies, fortifies also the heart. In the course of living 
" righteously, soberly, and piously," a good man acquires a steady 
and well-governed spirit. Trained, by Divine grace, to enjoy witi 
moderation the advantages of the world, neither lifted up by success 
nor enervated with sensuality, he meets the changes in his lot with 
©iit unmanly dejection. He is inured to temperance and restraint 
He has learned firmness and self-command. He is accustomed ta 



Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. £>6 

look up to that Supreme Providence^ which disposes of human affairs, 
tiot with reverence only, hut with trust and hope. 

The time of prosperity was to him not merely a season of barreo 
joy, but productive of much useful improvement. He had cultivat- 
ed his mind. He had stored it with useful knowledge, with good 
principles, and virtuous dispositions. These resources remain entire, 
when the days of trouble come They remain with him in sickness, 
as in health ; in poverty, as in the midst of riches ; in his dark and 
solitary hours, no less than when surrounded with friends and gay 
society. From the glare of prosperity, he can, without dejection, 
Withdraw into the shade. Excluded from several advantages of the 
world, he may be obliged to retract into a narrower circle ; but 
within that circle he will find many comforts left. His chief plea- 
sures were always of the calm, innocent, and temperate kind ; and 
over these, the changes of the world have the least power. His 
mind is a -kingdom to him ; and he can still enjoy it. The world did 
net bestow upon him all his enjoyments ; and therefore it is not in 
the power of the world, by its most cruel attacks, to carry them all 
away. blair. 



CHAPTER V. 

PATHETIC PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Rome saved by female virtue. 

CGRIOLANUS was a distinguished Roman Senator and General 
*mo had rendered eminent services to the Republic. But these 
services were no security against envy and popular prejudices. He 
was at length treated with great severity and ingratitude, by the 
senate and people of Rome ; and obJiged to leave his country to pre- 
serve his life. Of a haughty and indignant spirit, he resolved to 
avenge himself; and with this view, applied to the Volscians, the 
enemies of Rome, and tendered them his services against his native 
country. The offer was cordially embraced, and Coriolanus was 
made general of the Volscian army. He recovered from the Ro- 
mans all the towns they had taken from the Volsci ; carried by 
assault several cities in Latium ; and led his troops within five miles 
of the city of Rome. After several unsuccessful embassies from the 
senate, all hope of pacifying the injured exile appeared to be extin- 
gmshed ; and the sole business at Rome was to prepare, with the 
utmost diligence, for sustaining a siege. The young and able-bodied 
men had instantly the guard of the gates and trenches assigned to 
them ; while those of the veterans, who, though exempt by their ago 
from bearing arms, were yet capable of service, undertook the de- 
f ence of the ramparts. The women, in the mean while, terrified by 
Jese movements, and the impending danger, into a neglect of their 



56 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

wonted decorum, ran tumultuously from their houses to the temples. 
Every sanctuary, and especially the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, 
resounded with the wailings and loud supplications of women, pros 
Crate before the statues of their divinities. In this general cluster 
nation and distress, Valeria, (sister of the famous Valerius Poplicola, 
as if moved by a divine impulse, suddenly took her stand upon the 
top of the steps of the temple of Jupiter, assembled the women about 
her, and having- first exhorted them not to be terrified by the great 
ness of the present danger, confidently declared, " That there was 
yet hope for the republic ; that its preservation depended upon them, 
and upon their performance of the duty they owed their country."— 
" Alas !" cried one of the company, " what resource can there be in 
the weakness of wretched women, when our bravest men, our ablest 
warriors themselves despair ?" — " It is not by the sword, nor by 
strength of arm," replied Valeria, "that we are to prevail; these 
belong not to our sex. Soft moving words must be our weapons and 
our force. Let us all in our mourning attire, and accompanied by 
our children, go and entreat Veturia, the mother of Coriolanus, to 
intercede with her son for our common country. Veturius's prayers 
will bend his soul to pity. Haughty and implacable as he has hither 
to appeared, he has not a heart so cruel and obdurate,, as not ta 
relent, when he shall see his mother, his revered, his beloved mother, 
a weeping suppliant at his feet. n 

This motion being universally applauded, the whole train of -wo- 
men took their way to Veturia's house. Her son's wife, Volumnia, 
who was sitting with her when they arrived, and was greatly sur 
prised at their coming, hastily asked them the meaning of so extra 
ordinary an appearance. " What is it," said she, " what can be the 
motive that has brought so numerous a company of visiters to this 
house of sorrow ?" 

Valeria then addressed herself to the mother : " It is to you 
Veturia, that these women have recourse in the extreme peril, with 
which they and their children are threatened. They entreat, im- 
plore, conjure you, to compassionate their distress, and the distress 
of our common country. Suffer not Rome to become a prey to the 
Volsci, and our enemies to triumph over our liberty. Go to the 
camp of Coriolanus : take with you Volumnia and her two sons : let 
that excellent wife join her intercession to yours. Permit these 
women with their children to accompany you : they will all cast 
themselves at his feet. O Veturia, conjure him to grant peace to 
his fellow-citizens. Cease not to beg till you have obtained. S* 
good a man can never withstand your tears : our only hope is in you* 
Come then, Veturia ; the danger presses ; you have no time for 
deliberation ; the enterprise is worthy of your virtue ; Heaven will 
crown it with success ; Rome shall once more owe its preservation 
to our sex. You will justly acquire to yourself an immortal fame, 
and have the pleasure to make every one of us a sharer in your 
glory." 

Veturia, after a short silence, with tears in her eyes, answered 
' Weak indeed is the foundation of your hope, Valeria, when jcm 



Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. 57 

place it in the aid of two miserable women. We are not wanting 
in affection to our country, nor need we any remonstrance or en- 
treaties to excite our zeal for its preservation. It is the power only 
of being serviceable that fails us. Ever since that unfortunate hour, 
when the people in their madness so unjustly banished Coriolanus, 
his heart has been no less estranged from his family than from hia 
countr v You will be convinced of this sad truth, by his own words 
o us af parting-. When he returned home from the assembly, 
wnere ne had been condemned, he found us in the depth of affliction, 
bewailing- the miseries that were sure to follow our being deprived 
of so dear a son, and so excellent a husband. We had his children 
upon our knees. He kept himself at a distance from us ; and, when 
he had awhile stood silent, motionless as a rock, Ins eyes fixed, and 
without shedding a tear; "Tis done,' he said. — 'O mother, and 
thou, Volumnia, the best of wives, to you Marcius is no more. I 
am banished hence for my affection to my country, and the services 
I have done it. I go this instant ; and I leave forever a city, where 
all good men are proscribed. Support this blow of fortune with the 
magnanimity that becomes women of your high rank and virtue. 1 
commend my children to your care. Educate them in a manner 
worthy of you, and of the race from whence they come. Heaven 
grant, they may be more fortunate than their father, and never fali 
short of him in virtue ; and may you in them find your consolation ) 
— Farewell.' 

" We started up at the sound of this word, and with loud cries of 
lamentation ran to him to receive his last embraces. I led his elder 
sou by the hand ; Volumnia had the younger in her arms. Ho 
turned his eyes from us, and putting us back with his hand, ' Mo. 
ther,' said he, ' from this moment you have no son : our country has 
taken from you the stay of your old age. — Nor to you, Volumnia, 
will Marcius be henceforth a husband ; mayst thou be happy with 
another, more fortunate ! — My dear children, you have lost your 
father.' 

" He said no more, but instantly broke away from us. He de- 
parted from Rome without settling his domestic affairs^ or leaving 
any orders about them ; without money, without servants, and even 
without letting us know to what part of the world he would direct 
his steps. It is now the fourth year since he went away ; and he has 
never inquired after his family, nor, by letter or messenger, given 
us the least account of himself: so that it seems as if his mother and 
his wife, were the chief objects of that general hatred which he 
shows to his country. 

" What success then can you expect from our entreaties to a man 
bo implacable ? Can two women bend that stubborn heart, which 
even all the ministers of religion were not able to soften? And 
indeed what shall I say to him ? What can I reasonably desire of 
him ? — that he would pardon ungrateful citizens, who have treated 
him as the vilest criminal ? that he would take compassion upon a 
furious, unjust populace, which had no regard for his innocence i 
Aid that he would betray a nation, which has not only opened him 



58 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

an asylum, but has even preferred him to her most illustrious citv 
ssens in the command of her armies ? With what face can I ask him 
to abandon such generous protectors, and deliver himself again into 
the hands of his most bitter enemies ? Can a Roman mother, and a 
Roman wife, with decency, exact, from a son and a husband, com. 
pliances which must dishonour him before both gods and men ? — » 
Mournful circumstance, in which we have not power to hate the 
most formidable enemy of oui country ? Leave us therefore to oui 
unhappy destiny ; and do not desire us to make it more unhappy, by 
an action that may cast a blemish upon our virtue." 

The women made no answer but by their tears and entreaties. — 
Some embraced her knees ; others beseeched Volumnia to join her 
prayers to theirs ; all conjured Veturia not to refuse her country 
this last assistance. Overcome at length by their urgent solicita- 
tions, she promised to do as they desired. 

The very next day, all the most illustrious of the Roman women 
repaired to Veturia's house. There they presently mounted a 
number of chariots, which the consuls had ordered to be made ready 
for them ; and, without any guard, took the way to the enemy's camp. 
Coriolanus, perceiving from afar that long train of chariots, sent 
out some horsemen to learn the design of it. They quickly brought 
him word, that it was his mother, his wife, and a great number of 
•ther women, and their children, coming to the camp. He doubtless 
conjectured what views the Romans had in so extraordinary a de. 
putation ; that this was the last expedient of the senate ; and, in hi 
own mind, he determined not to let himself be moved. But he reck 
oned upon a savage inflexibility that was not in his nature ; foi 
going out with a few attendants to receive the women, he no sooner 
beheld Veturia attired in mourning-, her eyes bathed in tears, and 
with a countenance and motion that spoke her sinking under a load 
of sorrow, than he ran hastily to her ; and not only calling her mo- 
ther, but adding to that word the most tender epithets, embraced her, 
wept over her, and held her in his arms to prevent her falling. The 
like tenderness he presently after expressed to his wife, highly com- 
mending her discretion in having constantly remained with his 
mother, since his departure from Rome. And then, with the warm- 
est paternal affection, he caressed his children. 

When some time had been allowed to those silent tears of joy, 
which often flowed plenteously at the sudden and unexpected meet 
ing of persons dear to each other, Veturia entered upon the business 
she had undertaken. After many forcible appeals to his understand 
ing and patriotism, she exclaimed : " What frenzy, what madness of 
anger transports my son ! Heaven is appeased by supplications, 
rows, and sacrifices : shall mortals be implacable ? Will Marciut 
set no bounds to his resentment ? But allowing that thy enmity t« 
thy country is too violent to let thee listen to her petition for peace ; 
yet be not deaf, my son, be not inexorable to the prayers and tears 
of thy mother. Thou dreadest the very appearance of ingratitude 
towards the Volsci ; and shall thy mother have reason to accuse the« 
of being ungrateful ? Call to mind the tender care I took of thj 



Chap 5. Pathetic Pieces. 5$ 

infancy and earliest youth ; the alarms, the anxiety, I suffered on 
thy account, when, entered into the state of manhood, thy life was 
almost daily exposed in foreign wars ; the apprehensions, the terrors, 
I underwent, when I saw thee so warmly engaged in our domestic 
quarrels, and, with heroic courage, opposing - the unjust pretensions 
of the furious plebians. My sad forebodings of the event have been 
but too well verified. Consider the wretcned life I have endured, 
if it may be called life, the time that has passed since I was deprived 
of thee. O Marcius, refuse me not the only request I ever made to 
thee ; I will never importune thee with any other. Cease thy immo 
derate anger ; be reconciled to thy country ; this is all I ask : grant 
«e but this, and we shall both be happy. Freed from those tempes* 
tuous passions which now agitate thy soul, and from all the torments 
of self-reproach, thy days will flow smoothly on in the sweet serenity 
of conscious virtue : and as for me, if I carry back to Rome the hopes 
of an approaching peace, an assurance of thy being reconciled to thy 
country, with what transports of joy shall I be received ! In what 
honour, in what delightful repose, shall I pass the remainder of my 
life ! What immortal glory shall I have acquired J M 

Coriolanus made no attempt to interrupt Veturia while she was 
Bpeaking; and when she had ceased, he still continued in deep 
silence. Anger, hatred, and desire of revenge, balanced in his 
heart those softer passions, which the sight and discourse of his mo 
ther had awakened in his breast. Veturia perceiving his irresolu- 
tion, and fearing the event, thus renewed her expostulation : " Why 
dost thou not answer me, my son ? Is there then such greatness of mind 
in giving all to resentment ? Art thou ashamed to grant any thing to 
4 mother who thus entreats thee, thus humbles herself to thee ? If it 
be so, to what purpose should I longer endure a wretched life ?" As 
-he uttered these last words, interrupted by sighs, she threw herself 
prostrate at his feet. His wife and children did the same ; and all 
- he othev women, with united voices of mournful accent, begged and 
Unplored his pity. 

The Volscian officers, not able unmoved to behold this scene, 
i urned away their eyes : but Coriolanus, almost beside himself to 
i ee Veturia at his feet, passionately cried out : " Ah ! mother, what 
Jtrt thou doing ?" And, tenderly pressing her hand, in raising her up, 
)\e added, in a low voice, " Rome is saved, but thy son is lost ! w 

Early the next morning, Cariolanus broke up his camp, and 
peaceably marched his army homewards. Nobody had the boldness 
>o contradict his orders. Many were exceedingly dissatisfied with 
iiis conduct : but others excused it, being more affected with his filial 
respect to his mother, than with their own interests. 

HOOKE'S ROMAN HISTORY 

SECTION II. 

Execution of Cramner, Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Queen Mary determind to bring Cranmer, whom she had long 
tetained in prison, to punishment ; and in order more fully to satiiu 






60 Sequel to the English Reader Pari i 

her vengeance, she resolved to punish him for heresy, rather than foi 
treason. He was cited by the Pope to stand his trial at Borne ; and 
though he was known to be kept in close custody at Oxford, he was, 
upon his not appearing, condemned as contumacious. Bonner, 
bishop of London, and Thirleby, bishop of Ely, were sent to degrade 
him ; and the former executed the melancholy ceremony, with all 
the joy and exultation which suited his savage nature. The im- 
placable spirit of the Queen, not satisfied with the future misery of 
Cranmer, which she believed inevitable, and with the execution of 
that dreadful sentence to which he was condemned, prompted he? 
also to seek the ruin of his honour, and the infamy of his name. Per 
sons were employed to attack him, not in the way of disputation, 
against which he was sufficiently armed ; but by flattery, insinua- 
tion, and address ; by representing the dignities to which his charac 
ter still entitled him, if he would merit them by a recantation ; by 
giving him hopes of long enjoying those powerful friends, whom his 
beneficent disposition had attached to him, during the course of his 
prosperity. Overcome by the fond love of life ; terrified by the pros- 
pect of those tortures which awaited him ; he allowed, in an unguard 
ed hour, the sentiments of nature to prevail over his resolution, and 
agreed to subscribe the doctrines of the papal supremacy, and of the 
real presence. The court, equally perfidious and cruel, was de- 
termined that this recantation should avail him nothing; and sent 
©rders that he should be required to acknowledge his errors in 
church before the whole people ; and that he should thence be im 
mediately carried to execution. 

Cranmer, whether he had received a secret intimation of their de- 
sign, or had repented of his weakness, surprised the audience by a con- 
trary declaration. He said that he was well apprised of the obedience 
which he owed to his sovereign and the laws ; but that this duty ex- 
tended no farther than to submit patiently to their commands; and to 
bear, without resistance, whatever hardships they should impose up- 
on him : that a superior duty, the duty which he owed to his Maker, 
obliged him to speak truth on all occasions ; and not to relinquish, 
by a base denial, the holy doctrine which the Supreme Being had 
icvealed to mankind : that there was one miscarriage in his life, of 
which above all others, he severely repented ; the insincere declara 
lion of faith to which he had the weakness to consent, and whicl 
the fear of death alone had extorted from him : that he took this op 
portunity of atoning for his error by a sincere and open recantation ; 
and was willing to seal with his blood, that doctrine which he firmly 
believed to be communicated from heaven : and that, as his hand had 
erred, by betraying his heart, it should first be punished, by 9 
severe, but just doom, and should first pay the forfeit of its offences. 

He was then led to the stake, amidst the insults of his enemies ; 
and having now summoned up all the force of his mmd, he bore 
their scorn, as well as the torture of his punishment, with singu- 
lar fortitude. He stretched out his hand, and, without betraying, 
either by his countenance, or motions, the least sign of weakness, 
or even of feeling, he held it in the flames tiD it was entirely con- 






Chap. 5. Dialogues. 61 

sumed. flis thoughts seemed wholly occupied with reflections on 
his former fault, and he called aloud several times, "This hand 
has offended." Satisfied with that atonement, he then discovered 
a serenity in his countenance : and when the fire attacked his 
body, he seemed to be quite insensible of his outward sufferings, and 
by the force of hope and resolution, to have collected his mind 
altogether within itself, and to repel the fury of the flames. — He was 
undoubtedly a man of merit ; possessed of learning and capacity ; 
and adorned with candour, sincerity, and beneficence, and all 
those virtues which were fitted to render him useful and amiable 
in society, 

HUME. 

SECTION III. 

Christianity furnishes the best consolation under the evils of life. 
It is of great importance to contemplate the Christian religion in 
the light of consolation : as bringing aid and relief to us amidst 
the distresses of life. Here our religion incontestibly triumphs 
and its happy effects, in this respect, furnish a strong argument to 
every benevolent mind, for wishing them to be farther diffused 
throughout the world. For without the belief and hope afforded 
by Divine Revelation, the circumstances of man are extremely for- 
lorn. He finds himself placed here as a stranger in a vast universe, 
where the powers and operations of nature are very imperfectly 
known ; where both the beginnings and the issues of things are in- 
volved in mysterious darkness ; where he is unable to discover, with 
any certainty, whence he sprung, or for what purpose he was brought 
into this state of existence; whether he is subjected to the govern- 
ment of a mild, or of a wrathful ruler ; what construction he is to put 
on many of the dispensations of his providence ; and what his fate 
is to be when he departs hence. What a disconsolate situation, to 
a serious, inquiring mind ! The greater degree of virtue it possesses, 
the more its sensibility is likely to be oppressed by this burden of 
labouring thought. Even though it were in one's power to banish 
all uneasy thought, and to fill up the hours of life with perpetual 
amusement, life so filled up would, upon reflection, appear poor 
and trivial. But these are far from being the terms upon which man 
is brought into this" world. He is conscious that his being is frail 
and feeble ; he sees himself beset with various dangers ; and is ex- 
posed to many a melancholy apprehension, from the evils which he 
may have to encounter, before he arrives at the close of life. In 
this distressed condition, to reveal to him such discoveries of the Su- 
preme' Being as the Christian religion affords, is to reveal to him a 
father and a friend ; is to let in a ray of the most cheering light up- 
on the darkness of the human state. He who was before a destitute 
orphan, wandering in the inhospitable desert, has now gained .a 
shelter from the bitter and inclement blast. He now knows te 
whom to pray, and in whom to trust ; where to unbosom his sorrows* 
tnd from what hand to look for relief 

P 



Q2 Sequel to the English Reader. 

It is certain, that when the heart bleeds from some wound of ?©■ 
cent misfortune, nothing is of equal efficacy with religious comfort. 
It is of pjwer to enlighten the darkest hour, and to assuage th« 
severest wo, by the belief of the Divine favour, and the prospect of 
a blessed immortality. In such hopes, the mind expatiates wit! 
joy ; and when bereaved of its earthly friends, solaces itself wit) 
the thoughts of one Friend, who will never forsake it. Refiner 
reasonings concerning the nature of the human condition, and the im 
provement which philosophy teaches us to make of every event, maj 
entertain the mind when it is at ease ; may perhaps contribute u 
sooth it, when slightly touched with sorrow : but when it is torn with 
any sore distress, they are cold and feeble, compared with the direct 
promise from the Father of mercies. This is " an anchor to the 
soul both sure and steadfast." This has given consolation and re. 
fuge to many a virtuous heart, at a time when the most cogent rea. 
sonings would have proved utterly unavailing. 

Upon the approach of death, when, if a man thinks at all, hi( 
anxiety about his future ii terests must naturally increase, the powei 
of religious consolation is sensibly felt. Then appears in the most 
striking light, the high value of the discoveries made by the gospel , 
not only life and immortality revealed, but a Mediator with God dis« 
covered ; mercy proclaimed, through him, to the frailties of the peni. 
tent and the humble ; and his presence promised to be with then* 
when they are passing through " the valley of the shadow of death,* 
in order to bring them safe into unseen habitations of rest and joy- 
Here is ground for their leaving the world with comfort and peace. 
But in this severe and trying period, this labouring hour of nature, 
how shall the unhappy man support himself, who knows not, or be- 
lieves not, the discoveries of religion ? Secretly conscious to himself 
that he has not acted his part as he ought to have done, the sins of 
his past life arise before him in sad remembrance. He wishes to exisf 
after death, and yet dreads that existence. The Governor of the 
world is unknown. He cannot tell whether every endeavour to ob- 
tain his mercy may not be in vain. All is awful obscurity around 
linn ; and, in the midst of endless doubts and perplexities, the trem- 
bling, reluctant soul is forced away from the body. As the misfor- 
tunes of life must, to such a man, have been most oppressive, so its 
end is bitter. His sun sets in a dark cloud; and the night of death 
closes over his head, full of misery. blair. 

SECTION IV. 

benefits to be derived from scenes of distress. 

Some periods of sadness have, in our present situation,, a just and 
natural place ; and they are requisite to the true enjoyment of plea* 
sure ; but I shall at present decline considering the subject in this 
view; and confine myself to point out the direct effects of a propei 
attention to tire distresses of life, upon our moral and religious 
character. 

In the first place, the house of mourning is calculated to give a 



Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. 

proper check to our natural thoughtlessness and levity. The indo 
ence of mankind, and their love of pleasure, spread through all cha- 
racters and ranks, some degree of aversion to what is grave and 
serious. They grasp at any object, either of business or amuse- 
ment, which makes the present moment pass smoothly away; which 
carries their thoughts abroad, and saves them from the trouble of re* 
tiecting on themselves. With too many, this passes into a habit of 
constant dissipation. If their fortune and rank allow them to in- 
lulge their inclinations, they devote themselves to the pursuit of 
unusernent through all its different forms. The skilful arrange- 
nent of its successive scenes, and the preparatory study for shining 
di each, are the only exertions in which their understanding is em- 
ployed. Such a mode of life may keep alive, for awhile, a frivolous 
vivacity ; it may improve men in some of those exterior accomplish- 
ment, which sparkle in the eyes of the giddy and the vain ; but it. 
must sink them in the esteem of all the wise. It renaers them stran- 
gers to themselves ; and useless, if not pernicious, to the world. 
They lose every manly principle. Their minds become relaxed and 
effeminate. All that is great or respectable in the human character 
is buried under a mass of trifles and follies. 

If some measures ought to be taken for rescuing the mind from 
this disgraceful levity ; if some principles must be acquired, which 
may give more dignity and steadiness to conduct; where are these 
to be looked for 1 Not surely in the house of feasting, where every 
object flatters the senses, and strengthens the seductions to which 
we are already prone ; where the spirit of dissipation circulates 
from heart to heart ; and the children of folly mutually admire 
and are admired. It is in the sober and serious house of mourning 
that the tide of vanity is made to turn, and a new direction given to 
the current of thought. When some affecting incident presents a 
strong discovery of the deceitfulness of all worldly joy, and rouses our 
sensibility to human wo ; when we behold those with whom we had 
lately mingled in the house of feasting, sunk by some of the sudden 
vicissitudes of life into the vale of misery ; or when, in sad silence, 
we stand by the fiiend whom we had loved as our own soul, stretch- 
ed on the bed of death ; then is the season when this world begins te 
appear in a new light ; when the heart opens to virtuous sentiments, 
and is led into that train of reflection which ought to direct life, He 
who before knew not what it was to commune -with his heart on any 
serious subject, now puts the question to himself, for what purpose he 
was sent forth into this mortal, transitory state ; what his fate is like- 
ly to be when it concludes; and what judgment he ought to forni of 
those pleasures which amuse for a little, but which, he now sees, 
cannot save the heart from anguish in the evil day, Touched by 
the hand of thoughtful melancholy, that airy edifice of bliss, whieh 
fancy had raised up for him, vanishes away. He beholds, in the 
place of it, the lonely and barren desert, in which, surrounded with 
many a disagreeable object, he is left musing upon himself. The 
time which he has mispent, and the faculties which he has misem- 
pfcovk^ his foolish levity and Jii£ criminal pursuits? all rise in painM 



54 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari \ 

prospect before him. That unknown state of existence into which 
race after race, the children of men pass, strikes his mind with so- 
lemn awe. Is there no course by which he can retrieve his past 
errors ? Is there no superior power to which he can look up for 
aid? Is there no plan of conduct which, if it exempt Inm not from 
sorrow, can at least procure him consolation amidst the distressful 
exigencies of life? — Such meditations as these, suggested by the 
house of mourning, frequently produce a change in ihe whole cha- 
racter. They revive those sparks of goodness whicn were nearly 
extinguished in the dissipated mind ; and give rise to principles of 
conduct more rational in themselves, and more suitable to the human 
state. 

In the next place, impressions of this nature not only produce 
moral seriousness, but awaken sentiments of piety, and bring men 
into the sanctuary of religion. One might, indeed, imagine that the 
blessings of a prosperous condition would prove the most natural 
incitements to devotion ; and that when men were happy in them, 
selves, and saw nothing but happiness around them, they could not 
fail gratefully to acknowledge that God who "giveth them all 
things richly to enjoy." Yet such is their corruption, that they are 
never more ready to forget their benefactor, than .vhen loaded with 
his benefits. The giver is coucealed from their careless and inat- 
tentive view, by the cloud of his own gifts. When their life coa. 
tinues to flow in one smooth current, unruffled by any griefs : when 
they neither receive in their own circumstances, nor allow them, 
selves to receive from the circumstances of others, any admonitions 
of human instability, they not only become regardless of Providence, 
but are in hazard of contemning it. Glorying in their strength, and 
lifted up by the pride of life into supposed independence, that impious 
sentiment, if not uttered by the mouth, yet too often lurks in the 
hearts of many during their flourishing periods, "What is the 
Almighty that we should serve him, and what profit should we have 
if we pray unto him ? " 

If such be the tendency of the house of feasting, how necessary is 
it that, by some change in their situation, men should be obliged to 
enter into the house of mourning, in order to recover a proper sense 
of their dependent state ! It is there, when forsaken by the gaieties 
^f the world, and left alone with the Almighty, that we are made to 
perceive how awful his government is ; how easily human greatness 
bends before him; and how quickly all our designs and measuies, at 
his interposal, vanish into nothing. There, when the countenance 
is sad, and the affections are softened by grief; when we sit apart, 
involved in serious thought, looking down as from some eminence on 
those dark clouds tbjat hang over the life of man, the arrogance of 
prosperity is humLied, and the heart melts under the impressions oi 
religion. Formerly we were taught, but now we see, we feel, how 
much we stand in need of an Almighty Protector, amidst the chang js 
of this vain world. Our soul cleaves to him who " despises n^t, nor 
abhors the affliction of the afflicted." Prayer flows forth of its own 
accord from the relenting heart, thai he may be our God, and tim 



Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces* 65 

God of our friends in distress ; that he may never forsake us while 
we are sojourning- in this land of pilgrimage ; may strengthen us 
under its calamities, and bring us hereafter to those habitations of 
rest, where we, and they whom we love, may be delivered from the 
trials which all are now doomed to endure. The discoveries of his 
mercy, which he has made in the gospel of Christ, are viewed with 
joy, as so many rays of light sent down from above, to dispel, in some 
degree, the surrounding gloom. A Mediator and Intercessor with 
the Sovereign of the universe, appear comfortable names ; and the 
resurrection of the just becomes the powerful cordial of grief. In 
such moments as these, which we may justly call happy moments, 
the soul participates of all the pleasures of devotion. It feels the 
power of religion to support and relieve. It is softened, without 
being broken. It is full, and it pours itself forth ; pours itself forth, 
if we may be allowed to use the expression, into the bosom of its 
merciful Creator. 

Enough has been said to show, that, on various occasions, " sor- 
row may be better than laughter." — Wouldst thou acquire the habit 
of recollection, and fix the principles of thy conduct; wouldst thou 
be led up to thy Creator and Redeemer, and be formed to sentiments 
of piety and devotion ; wouldst thou be acquainted with those mild 
tnd tender affections which delight the compassionate and humane ; 
wouldst thou have the power of sensual appetites tamed and cor- 
rected, and thy soul raised above the ignoble love of life, and fear of 
death ? go, my brother, go — not to scenes of pleasure and riot, not 
to the house of feasting and mirth — but to the silent house of mourn, 
ing ; and adventure to dwell for awhile among objects that will soften 
thy heart, Contemplate the lifeless remains of what once was fair 
and flourishing. Bring home to thyself the vicissitudes of life.— 
Recall the remembrance of the friend, the parent, or the child, 
whom thou tenderly lovedst. Look back on the days of former 
years ; and think on the companions of thy youth, who now sleep in 
the dust. Let the vanity, the mutability, and the sorrows of the 
numan state, rise in full prospect before thee; and though thy 
*' countenance ma} r be made sad, thy heart shall be made better.* 1 
This sadness, though for the present it dejects, yet shall in the end 
fortify thy spirit ; inspiring thee with such sentiments, and prompting 
•uch resolutions as shall enable thee to enjoy, with more real ad- 
vantage, the rest of life. Dispositions of this nature form one part 
of the character of those mourners, whom our Saviour hath pro- 
nounced blessed ; and of those to whom it is promised, that " sowing 
in tears, they shall reap in joy." A great difference there is be- 
tween being serious and melancholy ; and a melancholy too there is 
of that kind which deserves to be sometimes indulged. 

Religion hath, on the whole, provided for every good man, abun- 
dant materials of consolation and relief. How dark soever tha 
present face of nature may appear, it dispels the darkness, when Kt 
brings into view the entire system of things, and extends our survey 
to the whole kingdom of God. It represents what we now behoi4 
fcs only a part, and a small part, of the general order It assures us, 



66 Sequel to the English Redder*. Part I 

that though here, for wise ends, misery and sorrow are permitted to 
have place, these temporary evils shall, in the end, advance the 
happiness of all who love God, and are faithful to their duty. It 
shows them this mixed and confused scene vanishing- by degrees 
away, and preparing- the introduction of that state, where the house 
of mourning- shall be shut forever ; where no tears are seen, and 
no groans heard ; where no hopes are frustrated, and no virtuous 
connexions dissolved ; but where under the light of the Divine conn, 
tenance, goodness shall flourish in perpetual felicity. Thus, though 
religion may occasionally chasten our mirth with sadness of counte- 
nance, yet under that sadness it allows not the heart of good men te 
sink. It calls upon them to rejoice " because the Lord reigneth 
who is their Rock, and the most high God who is their Redeemer. 1 * 
Reason likewise joins her voice with that of religion ; forbidding us 
to make peevish and unreasonable complaints of human life, or in- 
juriously to ascribe to it more evil than it contains. Mixed as the 
present state is, she pronounces, that generally, if not always, there 
is more happiness than misery, more pleasure than pain, in the 
condition of man. bl air. 



CHAPTER VI. 

DIALOGUES. 

SECTION I. 
THERON AND ASPASIO. 

Beauty and utility combined in the productions of nature* 

THERON and Aspasio took a morning walk into the fields ; their 
spirits cheered, and their imiginations lively ; gratitude glowing in 
their hearts, and the whole creation smiling around them. 

After sufficient exercise, they seated themselves on a mossy hil« 
lock, which offered its couch. The rising sun had visited the spot, 
to dry up the dews and exhale the damps, that might endanger 
health ; to open the violets, and to expand the primroses, that deck- 
ed the green. The whole shade of the wood was collected behind 
them ; and a beautiful, extensive, diversified landscape spread itself 
before them. 

Theron, according to his usual manner, made many improving 
remarks on the prospect, and its furniture. He traced the footsteps 
of an All-comprehending contrivance, and pointed out the strokes 
of inimitable skill. He observed the grand exertions of power, and 
the rich exuberance of goodness, most signally, most charming** 
ly conspicuous through the whole. — Upon one circumstance he en- 
larged, with particular satisfaction. 

THERON. 

See ! Aspasio, how all is calculated to administer the highest ie. 
light to mankind. Those trees and hedges, which skirt the extra. 



Chap. 6. Dialogues. 6? 

mities of the landscape, stealing away from their real bulk, and less- 
ening by gentle diminutions, appear like elegant pictures in minia* 
ture. Those which occupy the nearer situations, are a set of noble 
images swelling upon the eye, in full proportion, and in a variety of 
graceful attitudes ; both of them ornamenting the several apartments 
of our common abode, with a mixture of delicacy and grandeur. 

The blossoms that array the branches, the flowers that embroider 
the mead, address and entertain our eyes with every charm of beau- 
ty . whereas, to other creatures, they are destitute of all those at- 
tractions, which result from a combination of the loveliest colours, 
and the most alluring forms. Yonder streams, that glide with smooth 
serenity along the valleys, glittering to the distant view, like sheets 
of polished crystal, or soothing the attentive ear, with the softness of 
aquatic murmurs, are not less exhilarating to the fancy, than refresh- 
ing to the soil through which they pass. The huge, enormous moun- 
tain; the steep and dizzy precipice ; the pendant horrors of the crag- 
gy promontory, wild and awful as they are, furnish an agreeable 
entertainment to the human mind; and please even while they amaze: 
whereas, the beasts take no other notice of those majestic deformi. 
ties, than to avoid the dangers they threaten. 

ASPASIO. 

How wonderfully do such considerations exalt our idea of the 
Creator's goodness, his very distinguishing goodness to mankind ! 
And should they not proportionably endear that eternal Benefactor 
to our hearts ? His ever bountiful hand, has, with profuse liberality, 
scattered blessings among all the ranks of animated existence. But 
to us he exercises a beneficence of a very superior kind. We ape 
treated with peculiar attention. We are admitted to scenes of de- 
light, which none but ourselves are capable of relishing. 

THERON. 

Another remark, though very obvious, is equally important. The 
destination of all these external things is no less advantageous, than 
their formation is beautiful. The bloom which engages the eye 
with its delicate hues, is cherishing the embryo fruit ; and forming, 
within its silken folds, the rudiments of a future desert. — Those 
streams which shine from afar, like fluid silver, are much more va. 
luable in their productions, and beneficial in their services, thaw 
they are beautiful in their appearance. They distribute, as they roll 
along their winding banks, cleanliness to our houses, and fruitfulnes 1 * 
to our lands. They nourish, and at their own expense, a never-fail 
mg supply of the finest fish. They visit our cities, and attend oui 
wharves, as so many public vehicles, ready to set out at all hours. 

Those sheep, which give their udders to be drained by the busy 
frisking lamos, are fattening their flesh for our support ; and while 
they fill their own fleeces, are providing for our comfortable cloth- 
ing. Yonder kine, some of which are browsing upon the tender 
herb, others, satiated with pasturage, and ruminating under the 
shady covert, though conscious of no such design, are concocting 
for our us°, one of the softest, purest, most salutary of liquors. The 
bees that flv humming: about our seat, and pursue their work on th* 



68 Sequel to the English Reader Part 1 

fragrant blossoms, are collecting- balm and sweetness, to compose tha 
richest of syrup ; which, through the produce of their toil, is intend- 
ed for our good. Nature and her whole family, are our obsequious 
servants, our ever-active labourers. They bring the fruits of their 
united industry, and pour them into our lap, or deposite them in our 
store-rooms. 

ASPASIO. 

Who can ever sufficiently admire this immense benignity ? — The 
Supreme Disposer of events has commanded delight and profit to 
Walk hand in hand, through his ample creation, making all things so 
perfectly pleasing, as if beauty were their only end ; yet all thinga 
so eminently serviceable, as if usefulness had been their sole design. 
— And, as a most winning invitation to our gratitude, he has render* 
ed man the centre, in which all the emanations of his beneficence, 
diffused through this terrestrial system, finally terminate. 

HERVEY. 

SECTION II. 
CADMUS AND HERCULES. 

Importance of Literature. 

HERCULES. 

Do you pretend to sit as high on Olympus as Hercules ? Did you 
kill the Nemaan lion, the Erymanthean boar, the Lernean serpent, 
and Stymphahan birds i Did you destroy tyrants and robbers ? vou 
value yourself greatly on subduing one serpent ; I did a9 much as 
that while I lay in my cradle. 

CADMUS. 

It is not on account of the serpent that I boast myself a greater 
benefactor to Greece than you. Actions should be valued by their 
utility, rather than their splendour. I taught Greece the art of 
writing, to which laws owe their precision and permanency. You 
subdued monsters ; I civilized men. It is from untamed passions, 
not from wild beasts, that the greatest evils arise to human society. 
By wisdom, by art, by the united strength of civil community, men 
have been enabled to subdue the whole race of lions, bears, and ser- 
pents ; and, what is more, to bind by laws and wholesome regula- 
tions, the ferocious violence and dangerous treachery of the human 
disposition. Had lions been destroyed only in single combat, men had 
had but a bad time of it ; and what but laws could awe the men who 
killed the lions ? The genuine glory, the proper distinction of the ra- 
tional species, arise from the perfection of the mental powers. Cou- 
rage is apt to be fierce, and strength is often exerted in acts of oppres- 
sion : but wisdom is the associate of justice. It assists her to form equal 
laws, to pursue right measures, to correct power, to protect weak- 
ness, and to unite individuals in a common interest and general wel- 
fare. Heroes may kill tyrants, but it is wisdom and laws that pre 
vent tyranny and oppression The operations of policy far surpass 
the labours of Hercule* preventing many evils which valour phA 



Ckap. 3. Dialogues. 6§ 

mig"ht cannot even redress?. You heroes regard nothing- bur glory ; 
and scarcely consider whether the conquests which raise your fame, 
are really beneficial to your country. Uubappy are the people who 
are,governed by valour not directed by prudence, and not mitigated 
by the gentle arts ! 

HERCULES. 

I do not expect to find an admirer of my strenuous life, in the man 
who taught his countrymen to sit still and read ; and to lose the hours 
of youth and action in idle speculation and the sport of words. 

CADMUS. 

An ambition to have a place in the registers of fame, is the Eurys- 
theus which imposes heroic labours on mankind. The rmises incite 
to action, as well as entertain the hours of repose ; and I think you 
should honour them for presenting to heroes so noble a recreation, 
as may prevent their taking up the distaff, when they lay down the 
club. 

HERCULES. 

Wits as well as heroes can take up the distaff. What think you 
of their thin-spun systems of philosophy, or lascivious poems, or Mi- 
lesian fables ? Nay, what is still worse, are there not panegyrics on 
tyrants, and books that blaspheme the gods, and perplex the natural 
sense of right and wrong ? I believe if Eurystheus were to set r le to 
work again, he would find me a worse task than any he imposed, be 
would make me read over a great library ; and I would serve it as 
I did the Hydra, I would burn as I went on, that one chimera might 
not rise from another, to plague mankind. I should have valued 
myself more on clearing the library, than on cleansing the Augean 
e tables. 

CADMUS. 

It is in those libraries only that the memory of your labour exists. 
The heroes of Marathon, the patriots of Thermopylae owe their fame 
to me. All the wise institutions of lawgivers, and all the doctrines 
if sages, had perished in the ear, like a dream related, if letters had 
lot preserved them. O Hercules ! it is not for the man who prefer 
red virtue to pleasure, to be an enemy to the muses. Let Sardaua 
palus and the silken sons of luxury, who have wasted life in inglon 
mis ease, despise the records of action, which bear no honourable 
♦estimony to their lives : but true merit, heroic virtue, should respect 
Itoe sacred source of lasting honour. 

HERCULES. 

Indeed, if writers employed themselves only in recording the acts 
)f great men, much might be said in their favour. But why do they 
trouble people with their meditations ? Can it be of any conse 
quence to the world what an idle man has been thinking ? 

CADMUS. 

Yes it may. The most important and extensive advantages man 
kind enjoy, are greatly owing to men who have never quitted theii 
closets. To them mankind are obliged for the facility and security 
of navigation. The invention of the compass has opened to them 
flew worlds. The knowledge of the mechanical powers has enabled 



70 Sequel to the English Reader. Part t 

them to construct such wonderful machines, as perform what the 
united labour of millions, by the severest drudgery, could net ac 
complish. Agriculture too, the most useful of arts, has received its 
share of improvement from the same source. Poetry likewise is of 
excellent use, to enable the memory to retain with more ease, and 
to imprint with more energy upon the heart, precepts and examples 
of virtue. From the little root of a few letters, science has spread 
its branches over all nature, and raised its head to he heavens. — 
Some philosophers have entered so far into the counsels of Divine 
Wisdom, as to explain much of the great operations of nature. The 
dimensions md distances of the planets, the causes of their revolu- 
tions, the path of comets, and the ebbing and flowing of tides, are 
understood and explained. Can any thing raise the glory of the 
human species more, than to see a little creature, inhabiting a small 
spot, amidst innumerable worlds, taking a survey of the universe, 
comprehending its arrangement, and entering into the scheme of 
that wonderful connexion and correspondence of things so remote, 
and which it seems a great exertion of Omnipotence to have esta- 
blished ? What a volume of wisdom, what a noble theology do 
these discoveries open to us ? While some superior geniuses have 
soared to these sublime subjects, other sagacious and diligent minds 
have been inquiring into the most minute works of the Infinite Arti 
ficer : the same care, the same providence, is exerted through the 
whole ; and we should learn from it, that, to true wisdom, utility and 
fitness appear perfection, and whatever is beneficial is noble. 

HERCULES. 

I approve of science as far as it is assistant to action. I like the 
improvement of navigation, and the discovery of the greater part of 
the globe, because it opens a wider field for the master spirits of the 
world to bustle in. 

CADMUS 

There spoke the soul of Hercules. But if learned men are to be 
esteemed for the assistance they give to active minds in their schemes, 
they are not less to be valued for their endeavours to give them a 
right direction, and moderate their too great ardour. The study of 
history will teach the legislator by what means states have become 
powerful ; and in the private citizen, they will inculcate the love of 
liberty and order. The writings of sages point out a private path of 
virtue ; and show that the best empire is self government, and that 
subduing our passions is the noblest of conquests. 

HERCULES. 

The true spirit of heroism acts by a generous impulse, and wants 
neither the experience of history, nor the doctrines of philosophers 
to direct it. But do not arts and sciences render men effeminate, 
luxurious, and inactive ? and can you deny that wit and learning are 
often made subservient to very bad purposes ? 

CADMUS. 

I will own that there are some natures so happily formed, tbey 
scarcely want the assistance of a master, and the rules of art, to give 
them force or grace in every thing they do. But these favoured 



Chap. 6. Dialogues. 71 

geniuses are few. As learning 1 flourishes only where ease, plenty, 
and mild government subsist ; in so rich a soil, and under so soft a 
climate, the weeds of luxury will spring up among the flowers of art: 
but the spontaneous weeds would grow more rank, if they were al- 
lowed the undisturbed possession of the field. Letters keep a frugal 
temperate nation from growing ferocious, a rich one from becoming 
entirely sensual and debauched. Every gift of Heaven is some- 
rimes abused; but good sense and fine talents, by a natural law, 
gravitate toward virtue. Accidents may drive them out of their 
proper direction ; but such accidents are an alarming omen, and of 
dire portent to the times. For if virtue cannot keep to her allegi- 
ance those men, who in their hearts confess her divine right, and 
know the value of her laws, on whose fidelity and obedience can she 
depend ? May such geniuses never descend to flatter vice, encou- 
rage folly, or propagate irreligion ; but exert all their powers in the 
lervice of virtue, and celebrate the noble choice of those, who, like 
Hercules, preferred her to pleasure. 

LORD LYTTLETON. 
SECTION III. 

MARCUS AURELIUS PHILOSOPHUS AND SERVIUS 
TULLIUS. 

An absolute and a limited monarchy compared. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Yes, Marcus, though I own you to have been the first of mankind 
in virtue and goodness ; though, while you governed, philosophy sat 
on the throne, and diffused the benign influences of her administra- 
tion over the whole Roman empire, yet, as a king, I might, perhaps, 
pretend to a merit even superior to yours. 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

That philosophy you ascribe to me has taught me to feel my own 
defects, and to venerate the virtues of other men. Tell me, there- 
fore, in what consisted the superiority of your merit, as a king. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

It consisted in this, that I gave my people freedom. I diminished, 
[ limited the kingly power, when it was placed in my hands. I need 
not tell you, that the plan of government instituted by me, was 
adopted by the Romans, when they had driven out Tarquin, the de- 
stroyer of their liberty; and gave its form to that republic, composed 
of a due mixture of the regal, aristocratical, and democratical pow- 
ers, the strength and wisdom of which subdued the world. Thus all 
the glory of that great people, who for many ages excelled the rest 
of mankind, in the arts of policy, belongs originally to me. 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

There is much truth in what you say. But would not the Ro- 
mans have done better, if after the expulsion of Tarquin, they had 
vested the regal power in a limited monarch, instead of placing it in 
two annual elective magistrates, with the title of consuls? This was 



72 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1. 

a great deviation from your plan of government, and I think an un- 
wise one. For a divided royalty is a solecism, an absurdity in poli- 
tics. Nor was the regal power committed to the administration of 
consuls, continued in their hands long enough to enable them to 
finish any act of great moment. From hence arose a necessity of 
prolonging their commands beyond the legal term ; of shortening 
the interval prescribed by the laws between the elections of those 
offices; and of granting extraordinary commissions and powers; by 
all which the republic was in the end destroyed. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

The revolution which ensued upon the death of Lucretia, was 
made with so much anger, that it is no wonder the Romans abolish- 
ed in their fury the name of king, and desired to weaken a power, 
the exercise of which had been so grievous : though the doing of this 
was attended with all the inconveniences you have justly observed. 
But if anger acted too violently in reforming abuses, philosophy 
might have wisely corrected that error. Marcus Aurelius might 
have new -modelled the constitution of Rome. He might have made 
it a limited monarchy, leaving to the emperors all the power that 
was necessary to govern a wide, extended empire, and to the senate 
and people all the liberty that could be consistent with order and 
obedience to government ; a liberty purged of faction, and guarded 
against anarchy. 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

I should have been happy indeed, if it had been in my power to 
do such good to my country. But heaven will not force its bless- 
ings on men, who by their vices are become incapable of receiving 
them. Liberty, like power, is only good for those who possess it, 
when it is under the constant direction of virtue. No laws can have 
force enough to hinder it from degenerating into faction and anar- 
chy, where the morals of a nation are depraved : and continued 
habits of vice will eradicate the very love of it out of the hearts of a 
people. A Marcus Brutus, in my time, could not "have drawn to 
his standard a single legion of Romans. But further, it is certain 
that the spirit of liberty is absolutely incompatible with the spirit of 
conquest. To keep great conquered nations in subjection and obe- 
dience, great standing armies are necessary. The generals of those 
armies will not long remain subject : and whoever acquires dominion 
by the sword, must rule by the sword. If he does not destroy 1 .ber 
ty, liberty will destroy him. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Do you then justify Augustus for the change he made in the 
Roman government 1 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

I do not: for Augustus had no lawful authority to make that 
change. His power was usurpation and breach of trust. But the 
goverrlment, which he seized with a violent hand, came to me by a 
lawful and established rule of succession. 



Chap. 6 Dialogues. 73 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Can anj length of establishment make despotism lawful? Is not 
Uberty an inherent, inalienable right of mankind? 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

They have an inherent right to be governed by laws, not by arbi 
trary will. But forms of government may, and must be occasionally 
changed, with the consent of the people. When I reigned over 
them, the Romans were governed by laws. 

SERVIUS TUI LTUS. 

Yes, because your moderation, and the precepts of that philosophy 
m which your youth had been tutored, inclined you to make the 
»aws the rule of your government, and the bounds of your power. — 
But, if you had desired to govern otherwise, had they power to re- 
strain you ? 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

They had not : the Imperial authority in my time had no limita- 
tions. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Rome therefore was in reality as much enslaved under you, as 
under your son ; and you left him the power of tyrannizing over it 
by hereditary right. 

MARCUS AURELIUS. 

i did ; — and the conclusion of that tyranny was his murder. 

SERVIUS TULLIUS. 

Unhappy father ! unhappy king ! what a detestable thing is abso. 
hue monarchy, when even the virtues of Marcus Aurelius could not 
ninder it from being destructive to his family, and pernicious to his 
countiy, any longer than the period of his own life ! But how hap- 
py is that kingdom, in which a limited monarch presides over a state 
so justly poised* that it guards itself from such evils, and has no need 
to take refuge in arbitrary power against the dangers of anarchy , 
which is almost as bad a resource, as it would be for a ship to run 
itself on a rock, in order to escape from the agitation of a tempest. 

LORD LYTTELTON. 

* The young reader will here be naturally reminded of the excel 
?ence of the British Constitution ; a fabric which has stood the test oi 
a§es, and attracted the admiration of the world. It combines the ad- 
vantages of the three great forms of government, without their incon 
veniences ; it preserves a happy balance amongst them : and it contains 
within itself the power of recurring to first principles, and of rectifying 
all the disorders of time. May Divine Providence perpetuate this in- 
valuable constitution ; and excite in the hearts of Britons, grateful 
acknowledgments for this blessing, aad for many others by which they 
are eminently distinguished ! 

G 



74 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

SECTION IV. 

THERON AND ASPASIO. 

On the excellence of the Holy Scriptures 

THERON. 

I fear my friend suspects me to be somewhat wavering, or de 
fective, in veneration for the Scriptures. 

ASPASIO. 

No, Theron, I have a better opinion of your taste an>£ discern 
tnent, than to harbour any such suspicion. 

THERON. 

The Scriptures are certainly an inexhaustible fund of mat trials, foi 
the most delightful and ennobling discourse and meditatioi* When 
we consider the Author of those sacred books, that they c» me origi- 
nally from Heaven, were dictated by Divine Wisdom, have the same 
consummate excellence as the works of creation ; it is r* ally sur- 
prising, that we are not often searching, by study, by meditation, or 
converse, into one or other of those important volumes. 

ASPASIO. 

I admire, I must confess, the very language and composition of 
the Bible. Would you see history in all her simplicity, and all 
her force ; most beautifully easy, yet irresistibly striking ? — See her, 
or rather feel her energy, touching the nicest movements of the soul, 
and triumphing over our passions, in the inimitable narrative of 
Joseph's life. — The representation of Esau's bitter distress ; the con- 
versation pieces of Jonathan and his gallant friend; the memorable 
journal of the disciples going to Eramaus ; are finished models of the 
impassioned and affecting. Here is nothing studied ; here are no 
flights of fancy ; no embellishments of oratory. If we sometimes 
choose a plaintive strain, such as softens the mind, and sooths , d 
agreeable melancholy, are any of the classic writers superior, in the 
eloquence of moi rning, to David's pathetic elegy on his beloved 
Jonathan ; to his most passionate and inconsolable moan over the 
lovely but unhappy Absalom ; or to that melodious wo, which war- 
bles and bleeds, in every line of Jeremiah's Lamentations ? 

Are we admirers of Antiquity ? — Here we are led back, beyond 
the universal delug-e, and far beyond the date of any other annals, 
— We are introduced to the earliest inhabitants of the earth. We 
take a view of mankind in their undisguised primitive plainness, when 
the days of their life were but little short of a thousand years. We 
are brought acquainted with the origm of nations ; with the creation 
of the world ; and with the birth of time itself. 

Are we delighted with vast achievements ? — Where is any thing 
comparable to the miracles in Egpyt, and the wonders in the field v( 
Zoan ? to the memoirs of the Israelites passing through the depths 
of the sea ; sojourning amidst the inhospitable deserts ; and conquer- 
ing the kingdom of Canaan ? — Here we behold the fundamental laws 
of the universe, sometimes suspended, sometimes reversed ; and no! 
wily the etinsnt of Jordan, but the course of nature controlled. 



Chap. 6. Dialogues 75 

If we want maxims of wisdom, or have a taste for the laconic 
style,— how copiously may our wants be supplied, and how delicate- 
ly our taste gratified ! especially in the book of Proverbs, Eccle 
siastes, and some of the minor prophets. Here are the most sage 
lessons of instruction adapted to every circumstance of life ; formed 
upon the experience of all preceding- ages ; and perfected by the un- 
erring" Spirit of inspiration. These are delivered with a conciseness 
so remarkable, that one might venture to say, every word is a sen 
tence : at least, every sentence may be called an apothegm, spark- 
ling wrth brightness of thought, or weighty with solidity of sense. 
The whole, like a profusion of pearls, containing, in a very small 
compass, a value almost immense ; all heaped up (as an ingenious 
writer observes) with a confused magnificence, above the little nice- 
ties of order. 

If we look for strength of reasoning, and warmth of exhortation, 
01 the manly boldness of impartial reproof ; let us have recourse to 
the Acts of the Apostles, and to the Epistles of Paul. These are 
a specimen, or rather these are the standard of them all. 

Another recommendation of the Scriptures, is, that they afford 
the most awful and most amiable manifestations of the Deity. His 
glory shines, and his goodness smiles, in tho^e Divine pages, with un- 
paralleled lustre. Here we have a satisfactory explanation of our 
own state. The origin of evil is traced ; the cause of all our misery 
discovered ; and the remedy, the infallible remedy, both clearly 
shown, and freely offered. The atonement and intercession of Christ 
lay a firm foundation for all cur hopes ; while gratitude for his dying 
lore suggests the most winning incitements to every duty. — Mo- 
rality, Theron, your (and, let me add, my) admired morality, is here 
delineated in all its branches, is placed upon its proper basis, and 
raised to its highest elevation. The Holy Spirit is promised to en- 
lighten the darkness of our understandings, and strengthen the im- 
becility of our wills. What an ample Can you indulge me in 

this favourite topic ? 

THERON. 

It is, I assure you, equally pleasing to myself Your enlarge- 
ments, therefore, need no apology. 

ASPASTO. 

What an ample provision is made, or referred to, by these excel- 
lent books, for all our spiritual wants ! and, in this respect, how in- 
disputable is their superiority to all other compositions ! Is any qne 
convinced of guilt, as provoking Heaven, and ruining the soul ? Let 
him ask Reason to point out a means of reconciliation, and a refuge 
of safety. Reason hesitates, as she replies; "the Deity may, per- 
haps, accept our supplications, and grant forgiveness." But the 
Scriptures leave us not to the sad uncertainty of conjecture. They 
epeak the language of clear assurance. God has set forth a propi- 
tiation ; he does forgive our iniquities : he will remember our sina 
no more. 

Are we assaulted by temptation, or averse to duty? Philosophy 
nay attempt to parry the thrust, or stjr up the reluctant mind, bj 



70 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 

disclosing- the deformity of vice, and urging- the fitness of things 
Feeble expedients ! just as well calculated to accomplish the ends 
proposed, as the Aims}' fortification of a cobweb to defend us from 
the ball of a cannon. The Bible recommends no such incompetent 
succours. " My grace," says its Almighty author, " is sufficient foi 
thee." — " Sin shall not have dominion over you." — The great Jeho. 
rah, in whom is everlasting strength, " worketh in us, both to will 
and to do, of his good pleasure." 

Should we be visited with sickness, or overtaken by any calamity, 
the consolation which Flato offers, is, that such dispensations coin, 
cide with the universal plan of Divine government. Virgil will tell 
tis, for our relief, that afflictive visitations are, more or less, the un 
avoidable lot of all men. Another moralist whispers in the dejected 
sufferer's ear, " Impatience adds to the load ; whereas a calm sub- 
mission renders it more supportable." — Does the word of revelation 
dispense such spiritless and fugitive cordials ? — No : those sacred 
pages inform us, that tribulations are fatherly chastisements, tokens 
of our Maker's love, and fruits of his care ; that they are intended 
to work in us the peaceable fruits of righteousness ; and to work out 
for us an eternal weight of glory. 

Should we, under the summons of death, have recourse to the 
most celebrated comforters in the heathen world ; they would in- 
crease our apprehensions, rather than mitigate our dread. Death 
is represented, by the great master of their schools, as the most for- 
midable of all evils. They were not able to determine, whether the 
so»il survived the body. Whereas, this inspired volume strips the 
•nonster of his horrors, or turns him into a messenger of peace ; 
gives him an angel's face, and a deliverer's hand ; and ascertains to 
the souls of the righteous, an immediate translation into the regions 
of bliss. 

THERON. 

Another very distinguishing peculiarity of the sacred writings 
Hist occurs to my mind ; the method of communicating advice, or ad 
ministering reproof, by parables : a method which levels itself to the 
lowest apprehension, without giving offence to the most supercilious 
temper. Our Lord was cslr?d by a stals.it of the Jewish law, " Who, 
is my neighbour '" which implied another question, " How is he to 
be loved ?" The inquirer was conceited of himself, vet ignorant of 
the truth, and deficient in his duty. Had the wise instructer of man 
kind abruptly declared, " Thou neither knowest the former, nor 
fulfillest the latter;" probably the querist would have reddened with 
indignation, and departed in a rage. To teach, therefoie, and not 
disgust ; to convince the man of his error, and not exasperate his 
mind, he frames a reply, as amiable in the manner, as it was well 
adapted to the purpose. 

A certain person going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, fell 
among thieves. Not content to rob him of his treasure, they strip 
him of his garments ; wounded him with great barbarity ; and leave 
him half dead. Soon after this calamitous accident, a traveller hap- 
pens to come along that very road : and what readers him mor« 



Chap. 6. Dialogues. 7* 

likely to afford relief, he is one ot the ministers of religion ; one wno 
taught others the lovely lessons of humanity and charity ; and who 
was, therefore, under the strongest obligations to exemplify them in 
nis own practice. He just glances an eye upon the deplorable ob- 
ject ; sees him stretched on the cold ground, and weltering in his 
blood ; but takes no further notice : nay, to avoid the trouble of an 
inquiry, he passes by on the other side. Scarcely was he departed, 
when a Levile approaches. This man comes nearer, and looks on 
the miserable spectacle; takes a leisurely and attentive survey of 
the case : and though every gash in the bleeding flesh cried and 
pleaded for compassion, this minister of the sanctuary neither speaks 
% word to comfort, nor moves a hand to help. Last of all comes a 
Samaritan ; one of the abhorred nation, whom the Jews hated with 
die most implacable malignity. Though the Levite had neglected 
an expiring brother ; though the priest had withheld his pity from 
one of the Lord's peculiar people ; the very moment this Samaritan 
sees the unhappy sufferer, he melts into commiseration. He for- 
gets the embittered foe, and considers only the distressed fellow-crea- 
ture. He springs from h's horse, and resolves to intermit his jour- 
ney. The oil and wine, intended for his own refreshment, he freely 
converts into healing unguents. He binds up the wounds ; sets the 
disabled stranger upon his own beast ; and with all the assiduity of 
a servant, with all the tenderness of a brother, conducts him to an 
inn. There he deposites money for his present use ; charges the host 
to omit nothing that might conduce to the recovery or comfort of 
his guest ; and promises to defray the whole expense of his lodging, 
his maintenance, and his cure. 

What a lively picture of the most disinterested and active benevo 
lence ! a benevolence w r hich excludes no persons, not even strangers 
or enemies, from its tender regards ; which disdains no condescen- 
sion, grudges no cost, in its labours of love ! Could any method of 
conviction have been more forcible, and at the same time more pleas- 
ing, than the interrogatory proposed by our Lord, and deduced from 
the narrative ? " Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was 
neighbour unto him that fell among thieves ?" Or can there be an 
advice more suitable to the occasion, more important in its nature, 
or expressed with a more sententious energy, than that which is con- 
tained in these words ; ** €k> thou, and do likewise ? " In this case, 
the learner instructs, the delinquent condemns himself. Bigotry 
bears away its prejudice ; and pride, (when the moral so sweetly, so 
imperceptibly insinuates,) even pride itself, lends a willing ear to 
admonition. 

ASPASIO. 

It has been very justly remarked, that this eloquence of similitude 
is equally affecting to the wise, and intelligible to the ignorant. It 
shows rather than relates, the point to be illustrated. It has been 
admired by the best judges in all ages ; but never was carried to 
its highest perfection, till our Lord spoke the parable of the prodi. 
ffal ; which has a beauty that no paraphrase can heighten ; a pei- 

a 2 



78 Sequel to the English Reader. Part . 

gpicuity that renders all interpretation needless ; and a force which 
every reader, not totally insensible, must feel. 

THERON. 

The condescension and goodness of God are every where conspi- 
cuous. In the productions of nature, he conveys to us the most 
valuable fruits, by the intervention of the loveliest blossoms. Though 
the present is in itself extremely acceptable, he has given it an ad- 
ditional endearment, by the beauties which array it, or the perfume* 
which surround it. In the pages of revelation, likewise, he has com 
municated to us the most glorious truths, adorned with the excel- 
lences of composition. They are, as one of their writers very ele 
gantry speaks, ' like apples of gold in pictures of silver.' 

ASPASIO. 

Who then would not willingly obey that benign command ? ** Thou 
shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou 
walkest by the way ; when thou liest down, and when thou rise3t 
up. M 

When I consider the language of the Scriptures, and sometime.! 
experience the holy energy which accompanies them, I am inclined 
to say, " Other writings, though polished with the nicest touches of 
art, only tinkle on the ear, or affect us like the shepherd's reed. But 
these, even amidst all their noble ease, strike, alarm, transport us. n 
When I consider the contents of the Scriptures, and believe myself 
interested in the promises they make, and the privileges they confer* 
I am induced to cry out, " What are all the other books in the world, 
compared with these invaluable volumes !"* hervey. 



CHAPTER VII. 

PUBLIC SPEECHES. 

SECTION I. 

The defence of Socrates before his Judges. 

SOCEATES, in his defence, employed neither artifice nor th<* 
glitter of eloquence. He had not recourse either to solicitation or 
entreaty. He brought neither his wife nor children to incline th<» 
judges in his favour, by their sighs and tears. But though he firmly 

* That accomplished scholar and distinguished writer, the late Sir Wil- 
liam Jones, chief Justice of Bengal, at the end of his Bible wrote th» 
following note ; which coming from a man of his profound erudition, 
and perfect knowledge of the oriental languages, customs, and manners, 
must be considered as a powerful testimony, not only to the sublimity, 
bat to the Divine inspiration of the sacred Wi itings. 

** I have," says he, " regularly and attentively read these Holy Scrip 
tures; and 1 am of opinion, that this volume, independently of its Divine 
origin, contains more true sublimity, more exquisite beauty, more pwt 



Chap. 7. Public Speeches. 79 

refused to make use of any other voice than his own, and to appear 
before his Judges in the submissive posture of a suppliant, he did not 
behave in that manner from pride, or contempt of the tribunal : it 
was from a noble and intrepid assurance, resulting from greatness 
of soul, and the consciousness of hi° . L 'th and innocence. His de- 
fence had nothing timorous or wp ^ in it. His discourse was bold, 
manly, generous, without pass' ^n, without emotion, full of the noble 
liberty of a philosopher, with no other ornament than that of truth, 
and brightened universally with the character and language of inno- 
cence. Plato, who was present, transcribed it afterwards, and with- 
out any additions, composed from it the work which he calls the 
Apology of Socrates, one of the most consummate master-pieces of 
antiquity, The following is an extract from it. 

" I am accused of corrupting the youth, and of instilling danger- 
ous maxims into their minds, as well in regard to Divine worship, 
as to the rules of government. You know, Athenians, that I never 
made it my profession to teach : nor can envy, however violent, 
reproach me with having ever sold my instructions. I have an un 
deniable evidence for me in this respect, which is my poverty. J 
am always equally ready to communicate my thoughts both to the 
rich and the poor, and to give them opportunity to question or an- 
swer me. I lend myself to every one who is desirous of becoming 
virtuous : and if, amongst those who hear me, there are any that 
prove either good or bad, neither the virtues of the one, nor the 
vices of the other, to which I have not contributed, are to be ascrib- 
ed to me. My whole employment i3 to counsel the young and the 
old against too much love for the body, for riches and all other pre- 
carious things, of whatever nature they be ; and against too little 
regard for the soul, which ought to be the object of their affection. 
For I incessantly urge to them, that virtue does not proceed from 
riches ; but, on the contrary, riches from virtue ; and that all the 
other goods of human life, as well public as private, have their source 
in the same principle. 

" If to speak in this manner be to corrupt youth, I confess, Athe- 
nians, that I am guilty, and deserve to be punished. If what I say 
be not true, it is most easy to convict me of falsehood. I see here a 
great number of my disciples : they have only to come forward. It 
will, perhaps, be said, that the regard and veneration due to a mas- 
ter who has instructed them, will prevent them from declaring 
against me : but their fathers, brothers, and uncles, cannot, as good 
relations and good citizens, excuse themselves for not standing forth 
to demand vengeance against the corrupter of their sons, brothers-, 
and nephews. These are however, the persons who take upon them 
my defence, and interest themselves in the success of my cause. 

" Pass on me what sentence you please, Athenians : I can neither 
repent, nor alter my conduct. I must not abandon or suspend a 

morality, more important history, and finer strains both of poetry and 
eloquence, than can be collected from all other books, in whatever &ge 
r language they may have been composed." 



80 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari 1 

function which God himself has imposed on me. Now he has charg- 
ed me with the care of instructing my fellow-citizens. If after hav 
ing faithfully kept all the posts wherein I was placed by our gene, 
rals at Potidasa, Amphipolis, and Delium, the fear of death should at 
this time make me abandon that in which the divine Providence has 
placed me, by commanding me to pass my life in the study of 
philosophy, for the instruction of myself and others ; this would be a 
most criminal desertion indeed, and make me highly worthy of being 
cited before this tribunal, as an impious man, who does not believe 
in the gods. Should you resolve to acquit me, I should not, Atheni- 
ans, hesitate to say, I honour and love you ; but I shall choose rathei 
to obey God than you ; and to my latest breath shall never renounce 
my philosophy, nor cease to exhort and reprove you according to my 
custom, by saying to each of you as occasion offers ; " My good friend 
and citizen of the most famous city in the world for wisdom and 
valour, are you not ashamed to have no other thoughts than those of 
amassing wealth, and of acquiring glory, credit and dignities ; neg- 
lecting the treasures of prudence, truth, and wisdom, and taking 
no pains to render your soul as good and perfect as it is capable oi 
being r" 

" I am reproached with abject fear, and meanness of spirit, for 
being so busy in imparting my advice to every one in private, and 
for having always avoided to be present in your assemblies, to give 
my counsels to my country. I think I have sufficiently proved my 
courage and fortitude, both in the field, where I have borne arms 
with you, and in the senate, where I alone opposed the unjust sen. 
tence you pronounced against the ten captains, who had not taken 
up and interred the bodies of those, who were killed and drowned in 
the sea-fight near the island Arginusae ; and when, upon more than 
one occasion, I opposed the violent and cruel orders of the thirty 
tyrants. What is it then that has prevented me from appearing in 
your assemblies ? Do not take it ill, I beseech you, if I speak my 
thoughts without disguise, and with truth and freedom. Every man 
who would generously oppose a whole people, either amongst us or 
elsewhere, and who inflexibly applies himself to prevent the violation 
of the laws, and the practice of iniquity in a government, will never 
do so long with impunity. It is absolutely necessary for a man of 
this disposition, if he has any thoughts of living, to remain in a pri- 
vate station, and never to have any share in public affairs. 

** For the rest, Athenians, if, in my present extreme danger, I do 
not imitate the behaviour of those, who, upon less emergencies, have 
implored and supplicated their judges with tears, and have brought 
forth their children, relations, and friends ; it is not through pride 
and obstinacy, or any contempt for you, but solely for your honour, 
and for that of the whole city. You should know, that there are 
amongst our citizens those who do not regard death as an evil, and 
who give that name only to injustice and infamy. At my age, and 
with the reputation, true or false, which I have, would it be consist. 
ent for me, after all the lessons I have given upon the contempt of 



Chap. 7. Public Speeches. 81 

death, to be afraid of it myself, and to belie, in my last action, all the 
principles and sentiments of my past life? 

"But without, speaking- of my fame, which 1 should extremely 
injure by such a conduct, I do not think it allowable to entreat a 
judge, nor to be absolved by supplications. He ought to be influ* 
ericed only by reason and evidence. The judge does not sit upon 
the bench to show favour, by violating the laws, but to do justice in 
conforming to them. He does not swear to discharge with impunity 
whom he pleases, but to do justice where it is due. We ought not 
therefore, to accustom you to perjury, nor you to suffer yourselves 
to be accustomed to it ; for, in so doing, both the one and the other 
of us equally injure justice and religion, and both are criminals. 

" Do not, therefore, expect from me, Athenians, that I should have 
recourse amongst you to means which I believe neither honest nor 
lawful, especially upon this occasion, wherein I am accused of im- 
piety by Melitus : for, if I should influence you by my prayers, and 
thereby induce you to violate your oaths, it would be undeniably 
evident, that I teach you not to believe in the gods ; and even in 
defending and justifying myself, should furnish my adversaries with 
arms against me, and prove that I believe no divinity. But I am 
very far from such bad thoughts : I am more convinced of the exist. 
ence of God than my accusers are ; and so convinced, that I abandon 
myself to God and you, that you may judge of me as you shall deem 
best for yourselves and me." 

Socrates pronounced this discourse with a firm and intrepid tone 
His air, his action, his visage, expressed nothing of the accused.— 
He seemed to be the master of his judges, from the greatness of soul 
with which he spoke, without however losing any of the modesty 
natural to him. But how slight soever the proofs were against him, 
the faction was powerful enough to find him guilty. There was the 
form of a process against him, and his irreligion was the pretence 
upon which it was grounded ; but his death was certainly a concert- 
ed thing. His steady uninterrupted course of obstinate virtue, 
which had made him in many cases appear singular, and oppose 
whatever he thought illegal or unjust, without any regard to times 
or persons, had procured him a great deal of envy and ill-will. Af- 
ter his sentence, he continued with the same serene and intrepid 
aspect with which he had long enforced virtue, and held tyrants in 
awe. When he entered his prison, which then became the resi- 
dence of virtue and probity, his friends followed him, and continued 
to visit him during the interval between his condemnation and his 
death. goldsmith. 

SECTION II. 

The Scythian ambassadors to Alexander, on his making prepara 
tions to attack their country. 

If your person were as gigantic as your desires, the world could 
not contain you. Your right hand would touch the east, and your 
•eft the west at the same time : you grasp at more th?-a you are*equal 



82 Sequel to the English Reader. Pat t 1 

to. From Europe you reach Asia ; from Asia you lay hold on Eu 
rope. And if you should conquer all mankind, you seem disposed 
to wage war with woods and snows, with rivers and wild beasts, and 
to attempt to subdue nature. But have you considered the usua 
course of things ? have you reflected, that great trees are many years 
in growing- to their height, and are cut down in an hour? It is 
foolish to think of the fruit only, without considering the height yoif 
have to climb to come at it. Take care, lest, while you strive te 
reach the top, you fall to the ground with the branches you have 
laid hold on. 

Besides, what have you to do with the Scythians, or the Scythian* 
with you? We have never invaded Macedon : why should you 
attack Scythia? You pietend to be the punisher of robbers; and 
are yourself the general robber of mankind. You have taken Ly- 
dia ; you have seized Syria ; you are master of Persia ; you hav8 
subdued the Bactrians, and attacked India ; all this will not satisfy 
you, unless you lay your greedy and insatiable hands upon our 
flocks and our herds. How imprudent is your conduct ! you grasp 
at riches, the possession of which only increases your avarice. You 
increase your hunger, by what should produce satiety ; so that the 
more you have, the more you desire. But have you forgotten how 
long the conquest of the Bactrians detained you ? While you were 
subduing them, the Sogdians revolted. Your victories serve to no 
other purpose than to find you employment, by producing new wars ; 
fo*- the business of every conquest is twofold, to win, and to preserve. 
Though you may be the greatest of warriors, you must expect that 
the nations you conquer will endeavour to shake oif the yoke as fast 
as possible : for what people choose to be under foreign dominion ? 

If you will cross the Tanais, j r ou may travel over Scythia, and 
observe how extensive a territory we inhabit : but to conquer us is 
quite another business. You will find us, at one time, too nimble 
for your pursuit ; and at another, when you think we are fled far 
enough from you, you will have us surprise you in your camp : for 
the Scythians attack with no less vigour than they fly. It will, 
thei efore, be your wisdom to keep with strict attention what you 
nave gained : catching at more, you may lose what you have. We 
have a proverbial saying in Scythia, That Fortune has no feet, and 
is furnished only with hands to distribute her capricious favours, and 
with fins to elude the grasp of those to whom she has been bountiful. 
You profess yourself to be a god, the son of Jupiter Ammon : it suits 
the character of a god to bestow favours on mortals, not to deprive 
them of what they have. But if you are no god, reflect on the pre- 
carious condition of humanity. You will thus show more wisdom, 
than by dwelling on those subjects which have puffed up your pride, 
and made you forget yourself. 

You see how little you are likely to gain by attempting the con- 
quest of Scythia. On the other hand, you may, if you please, have 
in us a valuable alliance. We command the borders both of Eu- 
rope and Asia. There is nothing between us~and Bactria, but the 
river Tanais , and our territory extends to Thrace, which, as wo 



Chap. 7. Pubhc Speeches. 83 

have heard, borders on Macedon. If you decline attacking us in a 
hostile manner, you may have our friendship. Nations which have 
never been at war are on an equal footing- : but it is in vain that con- 
fidence is reposed in a conquered people. There can be no sincere 
friendship between the oppressors and the oppressed : even in peace, 
the latter think themselves entitled to the rights of war against the 
former. We will, if you think good, enter into a treaty with you, 
according to our manner, which is not by signing, sealing, and tak- 
ing the gods to witness, as is the Grecian custom ; but by doing actu. 
al services. The Scythians are not used to promise, but perform 
without promising. And they think an appeal to the gods superflu. 
©us ; for that those who have no regard for the esteem of men, will 
not hesitate to offend the gods by perjury. — You may therefore 
consider with yourself, whether you would choose to have for allies, 
or for enemies, a people of such a character, and so situated as to 
have it in their power either to serve you, or to annoy you, accord* 
ing as you treat them. q. curtius. 

SECTION III. 

Speech of the Earl of Chatham, on the subject of employing Indiana 
to Jight against the Americans. 

I cannot, my lords, I will not, join in congratulation on misfor- 
tnne and disgrace. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous 
moment: it is not a time for adulation ; the smoothness of flattery 
cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary 
to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must, if possible, 
dispel the delusion and darkness which envelop it ; and display, in its 
full danger and genuine colours, the ruin which is brought to our 
doors. Can ministers still presume to expect support in their infa- 
tuation? Can parliament be so dead to its dignity and duty, as to 
give their support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them ? 
measures, my lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire 
to scorn and contempt ? But yesterday, and England might have 
stood against the world ; now, none so poor as to do her reverence ! 
The people, whom we at first despised as rebels, but whom we how 
acknowledge as enemies, are abetted against us, supplied with every 
military store, their' interest consulted, and their ambassadors enter- 
tained by our inveterate enemy ; — and ministers do not, and dare not, 
interpose with dignity or effect. The desperate state of our army 
abroad is in part known. No man more highly esteems and honours 
the English troops than I do : I know their virtues and their valour; 
I know they can achieve any thing but impossibilities ; and I know 
Jhat the conquest of English America is an impossibility. You can- 
not, my lords, you cannot conquer America. What is your present 
situation there ? We do not know the worst : but we know that in 
three campaigns we have done nothing, and suffered much. You 
may swell every expense, accumulate every assistance, and extend 
your traffic to the shambles of every German despot ; your attempts 
will be for ever vain and impotent ;— doubly so, indeed, from ikb 



84 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

merceDary aid on which you rely ; for it irritates, to an incurable 
resentment, the minds of your adversaries, to overrun them with th* 
mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting- them and their pos 
sessions to the rapacity of hireling- cruelty. 

But, my lords, who is the man, that, in addition to the disgrace, 
and mischiefs of the Avar, has dared to authorize and associate to our 
arms, the tomahawk and scalping knife of the savage i — to call into 
civilized alliance, the wild and inhuman inhabitants of the woods?-— 
to delegate to the merciless Indian, the defence of disputed rights, 
and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren ? 
My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. 
But. my lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, not only 
on the principles of policy and necessity, but also on those of mo* 
rality ; " for it is perfectly allowable," says Lord Suffolk, " to use 
ail the means which God and nature have put into our hands." I 
am astonished, I am shocked, to hear such principles confessed ; to 
hear them avowed in this house, or in this country. My lords, I did 
not intend to encroach so much on your attention ; but I cannot re- 
press my indignation — I feel myself impelled to speak. My lords, 
we are called upon as members of this house, as men, as Christians, 
to protest against such horrible barbarity ! — " That God and nature 
have put into our hands !" What ideas of God and nature, that noble 
lord may entertain, I know not ; but I know that such detestable 
principles are equally abhorrent to religion and humanity. What ! 
to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature to the massacres 
of the Indian scalping knife ! to the savage, torturing and murder 
ing his unhappy victims ! Such notions shock every precept of mo 
raiity, every feeling of humanity, every sentiment of honour. These 
abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of them 
demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon that right reve- 
rend, and this most learned Bench, to vindicate the religion of then 
God, to support the justice of their country. I call upon the 
bishops to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn, — upon the 
judges to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us from thu 
pollution. I call upon the honour of your lordships, to reverence 
the dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call up 
en the spirit and humanity of my country, .to vindicate the nationai 
character. I invoke the genius of the constitution. From the tapes. 
try that adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble lord 
frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country. In vain did 
he defend the liberty, and establish the religion of Britain, against 
the tyranny of Rome, if these worse than Popish cruelties and in 
quisitorial practices, are endured among us. To send forth the mer- 
ciless Indian, thirsting for blood ! against whom ? — your protectant 
brethren ! — to lay waste iheir country, to desolate their dwellings, 
and extirpate their race and name, by the aid and instrumentality 
of these ungovernable savages ! — Spain can no longer boast pre- 
eminence in barbarity. She armed herself with bloodhounds to ex- 
tirpate the wretched natives of Mexico ; we, more ruthless, loose 
ihose brutal wamors against our countrymen m America, endeared 



Uhaj' 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 85 

to us by every tie that can sanctify humanity. T solemnly call upon 
your lordships, and upon every oider of men in the state, to stamp 
upon this infamous procedure the indelible stigma of the public ab- 
horrence. More particularly, I call upon the venerable prelates of 
our religion, to do away this iniquity . lei them perform a lustration 
to purify the country from this deep and deadly sin. 

My lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable to say more 
l»ut my feelings and indignation were too strong to have allowed 
me to say less. I could not have slept this night in my bed, nor 
even reposed my head upon my pillow, without giving vent to my 
«t£$dfast abhorrence of such enormous and preposterous principles.* 



CHAPTER VIII. 

PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

The voyage of Life ; an allegory 

" LIFE, n says Seneca, " is a voyage, in the progress of which we 
are perpetually changing our scenes. We first leave childhood be- 
hind us, then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then ihe better 
or more pleasing part of old age. 1 ' The perusal of this passage hav- 
ing excited in me a train of reflections on the state of man, the in- 
cessant fluctuation of his wishes, the gradual change of his disposi- 
tion to all external objects, and the thoughtlessness with which he 
floats along the stream of time, I sunk into a slumber amidst my me- 
ditations, and, on a sudden, found my ears filled with the tumult of 
labour, the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks of alarm, the whistle of 
winds, and the dash of waters. My astonishment for a time repress- 
ed my curiosity ; but soon recovering myself so far as to inquire 
whither we were going, and what was the cause of such clamour 
and confusion, I was told that we were launching out into the ocean 
of life ; that we had already passed the straits of Infancy, in which 
multitudes had perished, some by the weakness and fragility of their 
vessels, and more by the folly, perverseness, or negligence, of those 
who undertook to steer them ; and that we were now on the main 
sea, abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other means 
of security than the care of the pilot, whom it was always in our 

* Every benevolent mind must be gratified with the cheering prospect 
which is now opening in favour of the American Indians. The be 
sighted and unhappy part of our species, notwithstanding their savage 
jnormities, are entitled to compassion ; especially from those who are 
enlightened by the rays of that Gospel, which dispenses hope to the 
miserable, and breathes " peace on earth, and good will to men." They 
*re, indeed, not only entitled to compassion, but to our active and libe 
ta\ co-operation in the present happy measures, for diffusing amongst 
them the blessings of civil life, and the benign influence of Christianity. 

II 



»>6 Sequel to the EngCish. jKeatSef. Part 1 

power to choose, among great numbers that offered their direction 
and assistance. 

I then looked round with anxious eagerness : and, first turning 
my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through flowery islands, 
which every one that sailed along seemed to behold with pleasure ; 
but no sooner touched them, than the current, which, though not 
noisy or turbulent, was yet irresistible, bore him away. Beyond 
these islands, all was darkness ; nor could any of the passengers de 
scribe the shore at which he first embarked. 

Before me, and on each side, was an expanse of waters violent- 
ly agitated, and covered with so thick a mist, that the most per- 
spicacious eyes could see but a little way. It appeared to be full 
of rocks and whirlpools ; for many sunk unexpectedly while they 
were courting the gale with full sails, and insulting those whom 
they had left behind, So numerous, indeed, were the dangers, and 
so thick the darkness, that no caution could confer security. Yet 
there were many, who, by false intelligence betrayed their fol- 
lowers into ..hirlpools, or by violence pushed those whom they found 
in their way against the rock*. 

The current was invariable and insurmountable ; but though it 
was impossible to sail against it, or to return to the place that was 
once passed, yet it was not so violent as to allow no opportunities 
for dexterity or courage ; since, though none could retreat back 
Irom danger, yet they might often avoid it by oblique direction. 

It was, however, not very common to steer with mucL care or 
prudence ; for, by some universal infatuation, every man appeared 
to think himself safe, though he saw his consorts every moment 
sinking round him ; and no sooner had the waves closed over them, 
than their fate and their misconduct were forgotten ; the voyage was 
pursued with the same jocund confidence ; every man congratu- 
lated himself upon the soundness of his vessel, and believed him- 
self able to stem the whirlpool in which his friend was swallowed, 
or glide over the rocks on which he was dashed : nor was it often 
observed that the sight of a wreck made any man change his course. 
If he turned aside for a moment, he soon forgot the rudder, and 
left himself again to the disposal of chance. 

This negligence did not proceed from indifference, or from $ean 
ness of their present condition ; for not one of those who thus -rush 
ed upon destruction, failed, when he was sinking, to call loudly up 
on his associates for that help which could not now be given him 
and many spenttheir last moments in cautioning others against the foi. 
y by which they were intercepted in the midst of their course. Their 
6enevolence was sometimes praised, but their admonitions were 
unregarded. 

The vessels in which we had embarked, being confessedly unequal 
to the turbulence of the stream of life, were visibly impaired in the 
course of the voyage, so that every passenger was certain, that how 
long soever, he might, by favourable accidents, or by incessant vigi 
lance, be preserv ed, he must sink at last 



Chap. 8 Promiscuous Pieces. 87 

This necessity of perishing- might have been expected to sadden 
the gay, and intimidate the daring ; at least to keep the melancnoly 
and timorous, in perpetual torments, and hinder them from any en- 
joyment of the varieties and gratifications which nature offered them 
as the solace of their labours : yet in effect none seemed less to ex- 
pect destruction than those to whom it was most dreadful ; the} all 
had the art of concealing their danger from themselves ; and those 
who knew their inability to bear the sight of the terrors that embar- 
rassed their way, took care never to look forward ; but found some 
amusement of the present moment, and generally entertained them- 
selves by playing with Hope, who was the constant associate of the 
Voyage of Life. 

Yet all that Hope ventured to promise, even to those whom she 
favoured most, was not that they should escape, but that they should 
sink last ; and with this promise every one was satisfied, though he 
laughed at the rest for seeming to believe it. Hope, indeed, appa- 
rently mocked the credulity of her companions ; for, in proportion 
as their vessels grew leaky, she redoubled her assurances of safety, 
and none were more busy in making provisions for a long voyage, 
than they whom all but themselves saw likely to perish soon by ir- 
reparable decay. 

In the midst of the current of Life, was the gulph of Intemper 
ance, a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, of which the 
pointed crags were concealed under water, and the tops covered 
with herbage, on which Ease spread couches of repose ; and with 
shades, where Pleasure warbled the song of invitation. Within 
sight of these rocks, all who sailed on the ocean of Life must neces- 
sarily pass. Reason, indeed, was always at hand, to steer the pas- 
sengers through a narrow outlet, by which they might escape ; but 
very few could, by her entreaties or remonstrances, be induced to 
put the rudder into her hand, without stipulating that she should ap- 
proach so near the rocks of Pleasure, that they might solace them- 
selves with a short enjoyment of that delicious region, after which 
they always determined to pursue their course without any deviation. 

Reason was too often prevailed upon so far by these promises, as 
to venture her charge within the eddy of the gulph of Intemperance, 
where, indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but yet interrupted the 
course of the vessel, and drew it, by insensible rotations, towards the 
centre. She then repented her temerity, and with all her force en- 
deavoured to retreat ; but the draught of the gulph was generally 
too strong to be overcome : and the passenger, having danced in cir- 
cles with a pleasing and giddy velocity, was at last overwhelmed and 
lost. Those few whom Reason was able to extricate, generally suf 
fered so many shocks upon the points which shot from the rocks of 
Pleasure, that they were unable to continue their course with th 
same strength and facility as before ; but floated along timorously 
and feebly, endangered by every breeze, and shattered by every 
ruffle of the water, till they sunk, by slow degrees, after long strug^ 
gles, and innumerable expedients, always repining at their own folly 



83 Sequel to the English Reader. Part t. 

and warning others against the first approach towards the gulph of 
Intemperance. 

There were artists who professed to repair the breaches, and stop 
the leaks of the vessels which had been shattered on the rocks of 
Pleasure. Many appeared to have great confidence in their skill , 
and some, indeed, were preserved by it from sinking, who had re- 
ceived only a single blow : but I remarked that few vessels lasted 
long which had been much repaired : nor was it found that the artists 
themselves continued afloat longer than those who had least of their 
assistance. 

The only advantage which, in the voyage of Life, the cautious had 
above the negligent, was, that they sunk later, and more suddenly ; 
for they passed forward till they had sometimes seen all those in 
whose company they had issued from the straits of Infancy, perish 
in the way ; and at last were overset by a cross breeze, without the 
toil of resistance, or the anguish of expectation. But such as had 
often fallen against the rocks of Pleasure, commonly subsided by 
sensible degrees ; contended long with the encroaching waters : and 
harassed themselves by labours that scarcely Hope herself could 
flatter with success. 

As I was looking upon the various fates of the multitude about me, 
I was suddenly alarmed with an admonition from some unknown 
power : " Gaze not idly upon others, when thou thyself art sinking. 
Whence is this thoughtless tranquillity, when thou and they are 
equally endangered ?" I looked, and seeing the gulph of Intemper- 
ance before me, started and awaked. dr. johnson. 

SECTION II. 

The vanity of those pursuits which have human approbation for their 
chief object. 

Among the emirs and viziers, the sons of valour and of wisdom, 
that stand at the corners of the Indian throne, to assist the councils, 
or conduct the wars of the posterity of Timur, the first place was 
long held by Morad, the son of Hanuth. Morad having signalized 
himself in many battles and sieges, was rewarded with the government 
of a province, from which the fame of his wisdom and moderation 
was wafted to the pinnacles of Agra, by the prayers of those whom 
his administration made happy. The emperor called him into hi9 
presence, and gave into his hand the keys of riches, and the sabre of 
command. The voice of Morad was heard from the cliffs of Taurus 
to the Indian ocean ; every tongue faltered in his presence, and eve 
ry eye was cast down before him. 

Morad lived many years in prosperity : every day increased hie 
wealth, and extended his influence. The sages repeated his max 
ims ; the captains of thousands waited his commands. Competition 
withdrew into the cavern of envy, and discontent trembled at her 
own murmurs. But human greatness is short and transitory, as the 
odour of incense in the fire. The sun grew weary of gikling the 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 89 

palaces of Morad ; the clouds of sorrow gathered round his head ; 

and the tempest of hatred roared about his dwelling. 

Morad saw ruin hastily approaching-. The first that forsook brim 
were his poets. Their example was followed by all those whom he 
had rewarded for contributing- to his pleasures; and only a few 
whose virtue had entitled them to favour, were now to be seen in 
his hall or chambers. He felt his danger, and prostrated himself at 
the foot of the throne. His accusers were confident and loud ; his 
friends stood contented with frigid neutrality ; and the voice of truth 
was overborne by clamour. He was divested of his power, depriv- 
ed of his acquisitions, and condemned to pass the rest of his life on 
his hereditary estate. 

Morad had been so long accustomed to crowds and business, sup- 
plicants and flattery, that he knew not how to fii'l up his hours in soli- 
tude. He saw, with regret, the sun rise to force on his eye a new 
day for which he had no use ; and envied the savage that wanders in 
the desert, because he has no time vacant from the calls of nature, 
but is always chasing his prey, or sleeping in his den. 

His discontent in time vitiated his constitution, and a slow disease 
seized upon him. He refused physic, neglected exercise, and lay 
down on his couch peevish and restless, rather afraid to die, than de- 
sirous to live. His domestics, for a time, redoubled their assiduities ; 
but finding that no officiousness could sooth, nor exactness satisfy, 
they soon gave way to negligence and sloth ; and he that once com- 
manded nations, often languished in his chamber without an at- 
tendant. 

In this melancholy state, he commanded messengers to recall his 
eldest son, Abouzaid, from the army. Abouzaid was alarmed at the 
account of his father's sickness ; and hasted, by long journeys, to his 
place of residence. Morad was yet living, and felt his strength 
return at the embraces of his son ; then commanding him to sit down 
at his bed-side, " Abouzaid," said he, " thy father has no more to 
hope or fear from the inhabitants of the earth ; the cold hand of the 
angel of death is now upon him, and the voracious grave is howling 
for his prey. Hear therefore the precepts of ancient experience: 
Let not my last instructions issue forth in vain. Thou hast seen me 
happy and calamitous : thou hast beheld my exaltation and my fall. 
My power is in the hands of my enemies ; my treasures have reward- 
ed my accuse! s : but my inheritance the clemency of the emperor 
has spared ; and my wisdom his anger could not take away. Cast 
thine eyes around thee : whatever thou beholdest, will, in a few 
hours, be thine : apply thine ear to my dictates, and these possessions 
will promote thy happiness. Aspire not to public honours ; enter 
not the palaces of kings : thy wealth will set thee above insult ; let 
thy moderation keep thee below envy. Content thyself with private 
dignity ; diffuse thy riches among thy friends ; let every day extend 
thy beneficence ; and suffer not thy heart to be at rest, till thou art 
loved by all to whom thou art known. In the height of my power, 
I said to defamation. Who will hear thee ? and to artifice, What 
canst thou perform f * But, my son, despise not thou the malice of 



30 Sequel to the English Redder. PdH 1 

the weakest : remember that venom supplies the want of strength : 
and that the lion may perish by the puncture of an asp." 

Morad expired in a few hours. Abouzaid, after the months of 
mourning-, determined to regulate his conduct by his fathers precepts; 
and cultivate the love of mankind by every art of kindness and en- 
dearment. He wisely considered that domestic happiness was first 
to fee secured ; and that none have so much power of doing- good or 
hurt, as those who are present in the hour of negligence, hear the 
bursts of thoughtless merriment, and observe the starts of unguarded 
passion. He therefore augmented the pay cf all his attendants ; and 
requited every exertion of uncommon diligence by supernumerary 
gratuities. While he congratulated himself upon the fidelity and af 
fection of his family, he was in the night alarmed with robbers ; whr* 
being pursued and. taken, declared, that they had been admitted by 
one of his servants. The servant immediately confessed, that he 
unbarred the door, because another, not more worthy of confidence, 
Was entrusted with the keys. 

Abouzaid was thus convinced, that a dependant could not easily 
be made a friend ; and that while many were soliciting for the first 
rank of favour, all those would be alienated whom he disappointed. 
He therefore resolved to associate with a few equal companions se- 
lected from among the chief men of the province. "With these he liv- 
ed happily for a time, till familiarity set them free from restraint, and 
every man thought himself at liberty to indulge his own caprice, and 
advance his own opinions. They then disturbed each other with 
contrariety of inclinations, and difference of sentiments ; and Abou- 
zaid was necessitated to offend one party by concurrence, or both 
by indifference. 

He afterwards determined to avoid a close union with beings so 
discordant in their nature, and to diffuse himself in a larger circle. 
He practised the smile of universal courtesy ; and invited all to bis 
table, but admitted none to his retirements. Many who had been 
rejected in his choice of friendship, now refused to accept his ac- 
quaintance : and of those whom plenty and magnificence drew to bis 
fable, every one pressed forward toward intimacy, thought himself 
overlooked in the crowd, and murmured because he was not distin- 
guished above the rest. By degrees, all made advances, and all 
resented repulse. The table was then covered with delicacies in 
vain ; the music sounded in empty rooms ; and Abouzaid was left to 
form, in solitude, some new scheme of pleasure or security. 

Resolving now to try the force of gratitude, he inquired for men 
of science, whose merit was obscured by poverty. His house wa* 
soon crowded with poets, sculptors, painters, and designers, wh# 
wantoned in unexperienced plenty ; and employed their powers ii 
celebrating their patron. But in a short time they forgot the die 
tress from which they had been rescued ; and began to consider thek 
deliverer as a wretch of narrow capacity, who was growing great b; 
works which he could not perform, and whom they overpaid by eon 
descending to accept his bounties. Abouzaid heard their murmur* 



Chap. 8. Promiscuoits Pieces 91 

and dismissed them ; and from that hour continued blind to colours 
and deaf to panegyric. 

As the sons of art departed, muttering- threats of perpetual infa 
my, Abouzaid, who stood at the gate, called to him Hamlet the poet. 
V Hamlet," said he> " thy ingratitude has put an end to my hopes and 
experiments. I have now learned the vanity of those labours that 
wish to be rewarded by human benevolence. I shall henceforth do 
good, and avoid evil, without respect to the opinion of men ; and re- 
sob e to solicit only the approbation of that Being, whom alone we 
are sure to please by endeavouring to please him." 

DR. JOHNSON. 

SECTION III. 

The folly and misery of idleness. 

The idle man lives not to himself, with any more advantage than 
he lives to the world. It is indeed on a supposition entirely oppo. 
site, that persons of this character proceed. They imagine that, 
how deficient soever they may be in point of duty, they at least con. 
suit their own satisfaction. They leave to others the drudgery of 
life ; and betake themselves, as they think, to the quarter of enjoy- 
ment and ease. Now, in contradiction to this, I assert, and hope to 
prove, that the idle man, first, shuts the door against all improve- 
ment ; next, that he opens it wide to every destructive folly, and, 
lastly, that he excludes himself from the true enjoyment of pleasure. 

First, he shuts the door against improvement of every kind, whe- 
ther of mind, body or fortune. The law of our nature, the condi- 
tion under which we were placed from our birth, is, that nothing 
good or great is to be acquired, without toil and industry. A price 
is appointed by Providence to be paid for every thing ; and the price 
of improvement, is labour. Industry may, indeed, be sometimes 
disappointed. The race may not always be to the swift, nor the bat- 
tle to the strong. But, at the same time, it is certain that, in the 
ordinary course of things, without strength, the battle cannot be 
gained ; without swiftness, the race cannot be run with success. — 
If we consult either the improvement of the mind, or the health of 
the body, it is well known that exercise is the great instrument 
of promoting both. Sloth enfeebles equally the bodily, and the men* 
tal powers. As in the animal system it engenders disease, so on the 
faculties of the soul it brings a fatal rust, which corrodes and wastes 
them ; which, in a short time, reduces the brightest genius to the 
same level with the meanest understanding. The great differences 
which take place among men, are not owing to a distinction that 
nature has made in their original powers, so much as to the superior 
diligence with which some have improved these powers beyond 
others. To no purpose do we possess the seeds of many great abik* 
ties, if they are suffered to lie dormant within us. It is not the la- 
tent possession, but the active exertion of them, which gives thera 
merit. Thousands whom indolence has sunk into contemotible ob 



92 Sequel to the English Reader Part I 

6curity, might have come forward to the highest distinction, if idle 
ness had not frustrated the effect of all their powers. 

Instead of going on to improvement, all things go to decline 
with the idle man. His character falls into contempt. His fortune 
is consumed. Disorder, confusion, and embarrassment, mark his 
whole situation. Observe in what lively colours the state of his affairs 
is described by Solomon. u I went by the field of the slothful, and 
by the vineyard of the man void of understanding. And lo ! it was 
all grown over with thorns ; nettles had covered the face thereof; 
and the stone wall was broken down. Then I saw and considered 
it well. I looked upon it, and received instruction." Is it in this 
manner, that a man lives to himself? Are these the advantages which 
were expected to be found in the lap of ease? The down may at 
first have appeared soft ; but it will soon be found to cover thorns 
innumerable This is, however, only a small part of the evils which 
persons of this description bring on themselves ; for, 

In the second place, while, in this manner they shut the door against 
every improvement, they open it wide to the most destructive vices 
and follies. The human mind cannot remain always unemployed. 
Its passions must have some exercise. If we supply them not with 
proper employment, they are sure to run loose into riot and disorder. 
While we are unoccupied by what is good, evil is continually at hand ; 
and hence it is said in Scripture, that as soon as " Satan found the 
house empty," he took possession, and filled it " with evil spirits." 
Every man who recollects his conduct, may be satisfied, that his 
hours of idleness have always proved the hours most dangerous to 
virtue. It was then, that criminal desires arose ; guilty pursuits were 
suggested ; and designs were formed, which, in their issue, have dis- 
quieted and embittered his whole life. If seasons of idleness are 
dangerous, what must a continued habit of it prove? Habitual indo- 
lence, by a silent and secret progress, undermines every virtue in the 
soul. More violent passions run their course, and terminate. They 
are like rapid torrents, which foam, and swell, and bear down every 
thing before them. But after having overflowed their banks, their 
impetuosity subsides. They return, by degrees, into their natural 
channel ; and the damage which they have done, can be repaired. 
Sloth is like the slowly-flowing, putrid stream, which stagna f es m 
the marsh, breeds venomous animals and poisonous plants ; and in- 
fects with pestilential vapours the whole country round it. Having 
once tainted the soul, it leaves no part of it sound ; and, at the same 
time, gives not those alarms to conscience, which the eruptions 
of bolder and fiercer emotions often occasion. The disease which 
it brings on, is creeping and insidious ; and is, on that account, more 
certainly mortal. 

One constant effect of idleness, is to nourish the passions, and of 
course, to heighten our demands for gratification ; while it unhappi« 
ly withdraws from us the proper means of gratifying these demands. 
If the desires of the industrious man are set upon opulence or dis- 
tinction, upon the conveniences, or the advantages of life, he can ac» 
ewmplish his desires, by methods which are fair and allowable. Tbe 



Cfiap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 93 

idle man has the same desires with the industrious, but not the same 
resources for compassing 1 his ends by honourable means. He must 
therefore turn himself to seek by fraud, or b}^ violence, what he can- 
not submit to acquire by industry Hence, the origin of those mul- 
tiplied crimes to which idleness is daily giving birth in the world ; and 
which contribute so much to violate the order, and to disturb the 
peace of society. In general, the children of idleness may be rank- 
ed under two denominations or classes of men. Either, incapable 
of any effort, they are such as sink into absolute meanness of cha- 
racter, and contentedly wallow with the drunkard and debauchee, 
among the herd of the sensual, until poverty overtakes them, or dis- 
ease cuts them off; or, they are such as, retaining some remains of 
vigour, are impelled, by their passions, to venture on a desperate at 
tempt for retrieving their ruined fortunes. In this case, they em 
ploy the art of the fraudulent gamester to insnare the unwary. They 
issue forth with the highwayman to plunder on the road ; or with the 
thief and the robber, they infest the city by night. From this class, 
our prisons are peopled ; and by them the scaffold is furnished with 
those melancholy admonitions, which are so often delivered from it 
to the crowd. Such are frequently the tragical, but well known, 
consequences of the vice of idleness. 

In the third, and last place, how dangerous soever idleness may 
be to virtue, are there not pleasures, it may be said, which attend 
it ? Is there net ground to plead, that it brings a release from the 
oppressive cares of the world ; and sooths the mind with a gentle 
satisfaction, which is not to be found amidst the toils of a busy and 
active life ? — This is an advantage which, least of all advantages, we 
admit it to possess. In behalf of incessant labour, no man contends. 
Occasional release from toil, and indulgence of ease, is what nature 
demands, and virtue allows. But what we 'assert is, that nothing is 
so great an enemy to the lively and spirited enjoyment of life, as a 
relaxed and indolent habit of mind. He who knows not what it is 
to labour, knows not what it is to enjoy. The felicity of human life, 

I depends on the regalar prosecution of some laudable purpose or ob- 
ject, which keeps awake and enlivens all our powers. Our happiness 
consists in the pursuit, much more than in the attainment, of any tem- 
poral good. Rest is agreeable ; but it is only from preceding labours, 
that rest requires its true relish. When the mind is suffered to re- 
main in continued inaction, all its powers decay. It soon languishes 
and sickens ; and the pleasures which it proposed to obtain from rest, 
end in tediousness and insipidity. To this, let that miserable set of 
men bear witness, who, after spending great part of their life in ac- 
tive industry, have retired to what they fancied was to be a pleasing 
enjoyment of themselves in wealthy inactivity, and profound repose. 
Where they expected to find an elysium, they have found nothing 
but a dreary and comfortless waste. Their days have dragged on, 
in uniform languor ; with the melancholy remembrance often re- 
turning, of the cheerful hours they passed, when they were engaged 
in the honest business, and labours of the world. 

We appeal to every one who has the least knowledge or ohserv a.- 



P4 Sequel to the English Reader Part \ 

tion of life, whether the busy, or the idle, have the most agreeable 
enjoyment of themselve* ? Compare them in their families. Com- 
pare them in the societies with which they mingle, and remark, 
which of them discover most cheerfulness and gaiety, which possess 
the most regular flow of spirits ; whose temper is most equal; whose 
good humour most unclouded. While the active and diligent both 
enliven, and enjoy society, the idle are not only a burden to them- 
selves, but a burden to those with whom they are connected ; a 
nuisance to all whom they oppress with their company. 

Enough has now been said to convince every thinking person, of 
the folly, the guilt, and the miser} r , of an idle state. Let these ad« 
monitions stir us up to exert ourselves in our different occupations, 
with that virtuous activity which becomes men and Christians. Let 
us arise from the bed of sloth ; distribute our time with attention and 
care; and improve to advantage the opportunities which Providence 
has bestowed. The material business in which our several stations 
engage us, may often prove not sufficient to occupy the whole of our 
time and attention. In the life even of busy men, there are frequent 
intervals of leisure. Let them take care, that into these, none of 
the vices of idleness creep. Let some secondary, some subsidiary 
employment, of a fair and laudable kind, be always at hand to fill up 
those vacant spaces of life, which too many assign, either to corrupt- 
ing amusements, or to mere inaction. We ought never to forget, 
entire idleness always borders either on misery, or on guilt. At 
the same time, let the course of our employments be ordered in such 
a manner, that in carrying them on, we may be also promoting our 
eternal interest. With the business of the world, let us properly in* 
termix the exercises of devotion. B3 7 religious duties, and virtuous 
actions, let us study to prepare ourselves for abetter world. In the 
midst of our labours, for this life, it ought never to be forgotten, that 
we must " first seek the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and 
give diligence to make our calling and election sure :" otherwise, 
how active soever we may seem to be, our whole activity will prove 
only a laborious idleness : we shall appear in the end, to have been 
busy to no purpose, or to a purpose worse than none. Then only we 
fulfil the proper character of Christians, when we join that pious 
zeal which becomes us as the servants of God, with that industry 
which is required of us, as good members of society ; when according 
to the exhortation of the Apostle, we are found " not slothful in busi. 
ness," and at the same time, " fervent in spirit, serving the Lord n 

BLAIR. 

SECTION IV. 

The choice of our situation in life, a point of great importance* 

The influence of a new situation of external fortune is so great' 
it gives so different a turn to our temper and affections to our view* 
and desires, that no man can foretell what his character would prove, 
should he be either raised or depressed in his circumstances, in 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Faeces. 05 

remarkable degree ; or placed in some sphere of action, widely differ- 
ent from that to which he has been accustomed in former life. 

The seeds of various qualities, good and bad, lie in all our hearts. 
But until proper occasions ripen, and bring- them forward, they lie 
there inactive and dead. They are covered up and concealed with- 
in the recesses of our nature : or, if they spring up at all, it is under 
such an appearance as is frequently mistaken, even by ourselves.— 
Pride, for instance, in certain situations, has no opportunity of dis- 
playing itself, but as magnanimity, or sense of honour. Avarice 
appears as necessary and laudable economy. What in one station 
of life would discover itself to be cowardice and baseness of mind, 
passes in another for prudent circumspection. What in the fulness 
of power would prove to be cruelty and oppression, is reputed, in a 
subordinate rank, no more than the exercise of proper discipline. — 
For a while, the man is known neither by the world, nor by himself, 
to be what he truly is. But bring him into a new situation of life, 
which accords with his predominant disposition ; which strikes on 
certain latent qualities of his soul, and awakens them into action ; 
and as the leaves of a flower gradually unfold to the sun, so shall all 
his true character open full to view. 

This may, in one light, be accounted not so much an alteration of 
character, produced by a change of circumstances, as a discovery 
brought forth of the real character, which formerly lay concealed. 
Yet, at the same time, it is true that the man himself undergoes a 
change. For opportunity being given for certain dispositions, which 
had been dormant, to exert themselves without restraint, they of 
course gather strength. By means of the ascendancy which they 
gain, other parts of the temper are borne down ; and thus an altera- 
tion is made in the whole structure and system of the soul. He is a 
truly wise and good man, who, through Divine assistance, remains 
superior to this influence of fortune on his character ; who, having- 
once imbibed worthy sentiments, and established proper principles 
of action, continues constant to these, whatever his circumstances 
be ; maintains, throughout all the changes of his life, one uniform 
and supported tenour of conduct ; and what he abhorred as evil and 
wicked, in the beginning of his days, continues to abhor to the end. 
But how rare is it, to meet with this honourable consistency among 
men, while they are passing through the different stations and peri- 
ods of life ! When they are setting out in the world, before their 
minds have been greatly misled or debased, they glow with generous 
emotions, and look with contempt on what is sordid and guilty. — 
But advancing farther in life, and inured by degrees to the crooked 
ways of men ; pressing through the crowd, and the bustle of the 
world; obliged to contend with this man's craft, and that man's 
scorn; accustomed, sometimes, to conceal their sentiments, and of- 
ten to stifle their feelings, they become at last hardened in heart, and 
familiar with corruption. Who would not drop a tear over this sad, 
but frequent fall of human probity and honour ? Who is not hum- 
bled, when he beholds the refined sentiments and high principles on 
vhich we are so ready to value ourselrcs, brought to so shameful an 



96 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I 

issue; and man, with all his boasted attainments of reason, disco- 
vered so often to be the creature of his external fortune, moulded 
and formed by the incidents of his life ? 

Let us for a moment reflect on the dangers which arise from sta- 
tions of power and greatness , especially, when the elevation of men 
to these has been rapid and sudden. Few have the strength of 
mind which is requisite for bearing such a change with temperance 
and self-command. The respect which is paid to the great, and the 
scope which their condition affords for the indulgence of pleasure, 
are perilous circumstances to virtue. When men live among their 
equals, and are accustomed to encounter the hardships of life, they 
are of course reminded of their mutual dependence on each other, 
and of the dependence of all upon God. But when they are highly 
exalted above their fellows, they meet with few objects to awaken 
serious reflection, and with many to feed and inflame their passions. 
They are apt to separate their interests from that of all around them • 
to wrap themselves up in their vain grandeur ; and, in the lap of in 
dolence and selfish pleasure, to acquire a cold indifference to the con 
cerns even of those whom they call their friends. The fancied inde- 
pendence into which they are lifted up, is adverse to sentiments of 
piety, as well as of humanity, in their heart. 

But we are not to imagine, that elevated stations in the world fur- 
nish the only formidable trials to which our virtue is exposed. It 
will be found, that we are liable to no fewer, nor less dangerous 
temptations, from the opposite extreme of poverty and depression. 
When men who have known better days are thrown down into ab- 
ject situations of fortune, their spirits are broken, and their tempers 
soured : envy rankles in their breast at such as are more successful t 
the providence of Heaven is accused in secret murmurs ; and the 
sense of misery is ready to push them into atrocious crimes, in order 
to better their state. Among the inferior classes of mankind . craft 
and dishonesty are too often found to prevail. Low and penurious 
circumstances depress the human powers. They deprive men of 
the proper means of knowledge and improvement; and where igno 
ranee is gross, it is always in hazard of engendering profligacy. 

Hence it has been, generally, the opinion of wise men in all ages, 
that there is a certain middle condition of life, equally remote from 
either of those extremes of fortune, which, though it wants not also 
its own dangers, yet is, on the whole, the state most favourable both 
to virtue and to happiness. For there, luxury and pride on the one 
hand, have not opportunity to enervate or intoxicate the mind, nor 
want and dependence on the other, to sink and debase it ; there, aU 
the native affections of the soul have the freest and fairest exercise, 
the equality of men is felt, friendships are formed, and improvements 
of every sort are pursued with most success ; there, men are prompt 
ed to industry without being overcome by toil, and their powers call- 
ed forth into exertion, without being either superseded by too much 
abundance, or baffled by insuperable difficulties ; there a mixture ot 
comforts and of wants, at once awaken their gratitude to God, and 
reminds them of their dependence on his aid ; and therefore* in this 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 9f 

•tate, men seem to enjoy life to most advantage, and to be least ex- 
posed to the snares of vice. 

From what has been said, we learn the importance of attending, 
with the utmost care, to the choice which we make of our employ 
ment and condition in life. It has been shown, that our external 
situation frequently operates powerfully on our moral character ; 
and by consequence that it is strictly connected, not only with our 
temporal welfare, but with our everlasting- happiness or misery. He 
jvho might have passed unblamed, and upright, through certain walks 
of life, by unhappily choosing a road where he meets with tempta* 
tuns too strong for his virtue, precipitates himself into shame here, 
and into endless ruin hereafter. Yet how often is the determination of 
this most important article left to the chance of accidental connexions, 
or submitted to the option of youthful fancy and humour ! When it 
is made the subject of serious deliberation, how seldom have they, 
on whom the decision of it depends, any further view than so to dis- 
pose of one who is coming out into life, as that he may the soonest be- 
come rich, or, as it is expressed, make his way to most advantage in 
the world ! Are there no other objects than this to be attended to, in fix- 
ing the plan of life? Are there not sacred and important interesis which 
deserve to be consulted ? — We would not willingly place one whose 
welfare we studied, in a situation for which we were convinced that 
his abilities were unequal. These, therefore, we examine with care ; 
and on them we rest the ground of our decision. It is, however, 
certain, that not abilities merely, but the turn of the temper and the 
heart, require to be examined with equal attention, in forming the 
plan of future establishment. Every one has some peculiar weak- 
ness, some predominant passion which exposes him to temptations of 
one kind more than of another. Early this may be discerned to shoot , 
and from its first risings its future growth may be inferred. Anticipate 
its progress. Consider how it is likely to be affected, by succeeding 
occurrences in life. If we bring one whom we are rearing up, into 
a situation, where all the surrounding circumstances shall cherisk 
and mature this fatal principle in his nature, we become, in a great 
measure, answerable for the consequences that follow. In vain we 
trust to his abilities and powers. Vice and corruption, when they 
have tainted the heart, are sufficient to overset the greatest abilities. 
Nay, too frequently they turn them against the possessor ; and ren- 
der them the instruments of his more speedy ruin. blair 

SECTION V 

Ab life pleasing to God, that is not useful to man. An eastern 
narrative. 

It pleased our mighty sovereign Abbas Carascan, from whom the 
kings o. the earth derive honour and dominion, to set Mirza his ser- 
f ant over the province of Tauris. In the hand of Mirza, the balance 
of distribution was suspended with impartiality ; and under his ad 
ministratiou the weak were protected, the learned received honour, 
and the diligent became rich • Mirza, therefore, was beheld by every 



98 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

eye with complacency, and every tongue pronounced blessings upon 
his head. But it was observed that he derived no joy from the bene- 
fits which he diffused ; he became pensive and melancholy ; he spent 
ois leisure in solitude ; in his palace he sat motionless upon a sofa: 
and when he went out, his walk was slow, and his eyes were fixed 
tipon the ground : he applied to the business of state with reluc. 
tance ; and resolved to relinquish the toil of government, of which 
he could no longer enjoy the reward. 

He, therefor^, obtained permission to approach the throne of oui 
sovereign ; and being asked what was his request, he made this reply: 
" May the Lord of the world forgive the slave whom he has honour 
ed, if Mirza presume again to lay the bounty of Abbas at his feet. 
Thou hast given me the dominion of a country, fruitful as the gar. 
dens of Damascus ; and a city glorious above all others, except that 
only which reflects the splendour of thy presence. But the longest 
life is a period scarcely sufficient to prepare for death. All other 
business is vain and trivial, as the toil of emmets in the path of the 
traveller, under whose foot they perish forever : and all enjoyment 
is unsubstantial and evanescent as the colours of the bow that ap- 
pears in the interval of a storm. Suffer me, therefore, to prepare 
for the approach of eternity ; let me give up my soul to meditation , 
let solitude and silence acquaint me with the mysteries of devotion ; 
let me forget the world, and by the world be forgotten, till the mo- 
ment arrives in which the veil of eternity shall fall, and I shall be 
found at the bar of the Almighty." Mirza then bowed himself to the 
earth, and stood silent. 

By the command of Abbas it is recorded, that at these words he 
trembled upon the throne, at the footstool of which the world pays 
homage ; he looked round upon his nobles ; but every countenance 
was pale, and every eye was upon the earth. No man opened hit 
mouth ; and the king first broke silence, after it had continued neai 
an hour. 

" Mirza, terror and doubt are come upon me. I am alarmed as 
a man who suddenly perceives that he is near the brink of a preci- 
pice, and is urged forward by an irresistible force : but yet I know 
not whether my danger is a reality or a dream. I am as thou art, a 
reptile of the earth : my life is a moment, and eternity, in which 
days, and years, and ages, are nothing, eternity is before roe, fo? 
which I also should prepare : but by whom then must the faithful 
be governed ? By those only, who have no fear of judgment ? bj 
those only, whose J»fe is brutal, because like brutes they do not con 
sider that they shall die ? Or, who, indeed, are the faithful ? Are th* 
busy multitudes that crowd the city, in a state of perdition ? and w 
&e cell of the Dervise alone the gate of paradise ? To all, the life of 
m Dervise is not possible : to all, therefore, it cannot be a duty. De- 
part to the house which has in this city been prepared for thy resi- 
dence : I will meditate the reason of thy request ; and may He wh« 
illuminates the mind of the humble, enable me to determine with 
irisdom." 

Mirza departed ; and on a third day. having- received no 



Chap 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 9f 

maud, he again requested an audience, and it was granted. When 
he entered the rcyal presence, his countenance appeared more cheer- 
ful ; he drew a letter from his bosom, and having- kissed it, he pre- 
sented it with his right hand. " My Lord !" said he, " I have learn- 
ed by this letter, which 1 received from Cosrou the Iman, who stands 
now before thee, in what manner life may be best improved. I am 
enabled to look back with pleasure, and forward with hope ; and I 
ihall now rejoice still to be the shadow of thy power at Tauris, and 
to keep those honours which I so latelv wished to resign." The 
ting, who had listened to Mirza with ■ mixture of surprise and cu- 
riosity, immediately gave the letter to Cosrou, and commanded that 
it should be read. The eyes of the court were at once turned up- 
on the hoary sage, whose countenance was suffused with an honest 
blush ; and it was not without some hesitation that he read these 
words. 

" To Mirza, whom the wisdom of Abbas our mighty lord has hrk 
noured with dominion, be perpetual health ! When I heard thy pur 
pose to withdraw the blessings of thy government from the thou- 
sands of Tauris, my heart was wounded with the arrow of affliction, 
and my eyes became dim with sorrow. But who shall speak be- 
fore the king when he is troubled ; and who shall boast of know- 
ledge, when he is distressed by doubt? To thee will I relate the events 
of my youth, which thou hast renewed before me ; and those truths 
which they taught me, may the Prophet multiply to thee ! 

" Under the instruction of the physician Aluzar, I obtained an early 
knowledge of his art. To those who were smitten with disease, 
I could administer plants, which the sun has impregnated with the 
Bpirit of health. But the scenes of pain, languor, and mortality, 
which were perpetually rising before me, made me often tremble 
for myself. I saw the grave open at my feet : I determined, there- 
fore, to contemplate only the regions beyond it, and to despise every 
acquisition which I could not keep. I conceived an opinion, that 
as there was no merit but in voluntary poverty, and silent medi 
tation, those who desired money were not proper objects of bounty; 
and that by all who were proper objects of bounty, money was des- 
pised. I, therefore, buried mine in the earth; and renouncing so- 
ciety, I wandered into a wild and sequestered part of the country. 
My dwelling was a cave by the side of a hill. I drank the running 
water from the spring, and eat such fruits and herbs as I could find. 
To increase the austerity of my life, I frequently watched all night, 
titting at the entrance of the cave with my face to the east, resign- 
ing rtyselt to ti.e secret influences of the Prophet. One morning 
after my nocturnal vigil, just as I perceived the horizon glow at the 
approach of the sun, the power of sleep became irresistible, and I 
«unk under it. I imagined myself still sitting at the entrance of my 
cell ; that the dawn increased ; and that as I looked earnestly for the 
first beam of day, a dark spot appeared to intercept it. I perceived 
that it was in motion ; it increased in size as it drew near, and at 
length I discovered it to be an eagle. I still kept my eye fixed stead 
fastly upon it, and saw it alight at a small distance, where I now descn- 



100 Sequel to the English Reader. Part* 

ed a fox, whose two fore-legs appeared to be broken. Before tli?» 
fox the eagle laid part of a kid, which she had brought in her talone, 
and then disappeared. When I awaked, I laid my forehead upoi 
the ground, and blessed the Prophet for the instruction of the morn 
ing. I reviewed my dream, and said thus to myself, Cosrou, thoa 
hast done well to renounce the tumult, the business, and vanities cf 
life : but thou hast as yet only done it in part ; thou art still every 
day busied in the search of food ; thy mind is not wholly at rest • 
neither is thy trust in Providence complete. What art thou taughi 
by this vision ? If thou hast seen an eagle commissioned by Heave a 
ts feed a fox that is lame, shall not the hand of Heaven also suppJy 
tb.ee with food, when that which prevents thee from procuring it for 
thyself, is not necessity, but devotion ? — I was now so confident of a 
miraculous supply, that I neglected to walk out for my repast, which, 
after the first day, I expected with an impatience that left me little 
power of attending to any other object. This impatience, however, 
I laboured to suppress, and persisted in my resolution : but my eyes 
at length began to fail me, and my knees smote each other ; I threw 
myself backward, and hoped my weakness would soon increase to 
insensibility. But I was suddenly roused by the voice of an invi« 
sible being, who pronounced these words : * Cosrou, I am the angei, 
who, by the command of the Almighty, have registered the thought! 
of thy heart, which I am now commissioned to reprove. Whila 
thou wast attempting to become wise above that which is revealed, 
thy folly has perverted the instruction which was vouchsafed thee. 
Art thou disabled as the fox ? hast thou not rather the powers of tha 
eagle? Arise, let the eagle be the object of thy emulation. T\> 
pain and sickness, be thou again the messenger of ease and health. 
Virtue is not rest but action. If thou dost good to man as an evi- 
dence of thy love to God, thy virtue will be exalted from moral it 
divine ; and that happiness which is the pledge of paradise, wiJI 
be thy reward upon earth.' 

" At these words, I was not less astonished than if a mountain 
had been overturned at my feet. I humbled myself in the dust; 
I returned to the city; I dug up my treasure ; I was liberal, yet I 
became rich. My skill in restoring health to the body, gave me fre- 
quent opportunities of curing the diseases of the soul. I grew emi- 
nent beyond my merit; and itwas the pleasure of the king that I should 
stand before him. Now, therefore, be not offended ; I boast of no 
knowledge that I have not received. As the sands of the desert 
drink up the drops of rain, or the dew of the morning, so do I also, 
who am but dust, imbibe the instructions of the Prophet. . Believe 
then that it is he who tells thee, all knowledge is profane, which 
terminates in thyself; and by a life wasted in speculation, little even 
of this can be gained. When the gates of paradise are thrown 
open before thee, thy mind shall be irradiated in a moment. Here, 
thou canst do little more than pile error upon error : there, thou shalt 
build truth upon truth. Wait, therefore, for the glorious vision , and id 
the mean time emulate the eagle. Much is in thy power ; ap< 
therefore, much is expected of tliee. Though the Almighty o«4T 



Uutp. 8 Promiscuous Pieces. 101 

can give virtue, yet, as a prince, thou mayst stimulate those to bene- 
licence, who act from no higher motive than immediate interest; 
thou canst not produce the principle, but mayst enforce the practice 
Let thy virtue be thus diffused ; and if thou believest with reve- 
rence, thou shalt be accepted above. Farewell ! May the smile of 
Him who resides in the heaven of heavens be upon thee ; and against 
thy name, in the volume of His will, may happiness be written." 

The king-, whose doubts, like those of Mirza, were now removed, 
looked up with a smile that communicated the joy of his mind. He 
dismissed the prince to his government; and commanded these 
events to be recorded, to the end that posterity may know, " that na 
life is pleasing to God, but that which is useful to mankind." 

HAWKESWORTH. 

SECTION VI. 

Character of the Great Founder of Christianity 

Never was there on earth any person of so extraordinary a cha- 
racter as the Founder of our religion. In him we uniformly see a 
mildness, dignity, and composure, and a perfection of wisdom and of 
goodness, that plainly point him out as a superior being. But his 
superiority was all in his own divine mind. He had none of those 
outward advantages that have distinguished all other lawgivers. — 
He had no influence in the state ; be had no wealth ; he aimed at no 
worldly power. He was the son of a carpenter's wife, and he was 
himself a carpenter. So poor were his reputed parents, that at the 
time of his birth his mother could obtain no better lodging than a sta» 
ble ; and so poor was he himself, that he often had no lodging at alL 
That he had no advantages of education, we may infer from the sur- 
prise expressed by his neighbours on hearing him speak in the syna- 
gogue: "Whence hath this man these things ? What wisdom is 
this which is given him ? Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary ? 
Are not his brethren and sisters with us ?" This point, however, we 
need not insist on ; as from no education, that his own or any other 
country could have affords J, was it possible for him to derive that 
supernatural wisdom and power, that sanctity of life, and that purity 
of doctrine, which so eminently distinguish him. His first adherents 
were a few fishermen ; for whom he was so far from making any 
provision, that, when he sent them out to preach repentance and 
heal diseases, they were, by his desire, furnished with nothing, but 
one coat, a pair of sandals, and a staff. He went about in great 
humility and meekness, doing good, teaching wisdom, and glorifying 
God, for the space of about three years after the commencement of 
his ministry ; and then, as he himself had foreseen and foretold, he was 
publicly crucified. This is the great personage, who at this day 
gives law to the world. This is he, who has been the author of vir 
tue and happiness to millions and millions of the human race. And 
this is he whom the wisest and best men that ever lived have reve- 
renced as a Divine Person, and gloried in as the deliverer and saviour 
of mankind. dr. beattib; 

12 



10* Sequel to the English Reader * Pat I 

SECTION VII. 

The spinl and laws of Christianity superior to those of every othei 

religion. 

The morality of the gospel gives it an infinite superiority over all 
systems of doctrine that ever were devised by man. Were our lives 
and opinions to be regulated as it prescribes, nothing would be want- 
ing to make us happy : there would be no injustice, no impiety, n» 
disorderly passions. Harmony and love would universally prevail 
Every man, content with his lot, resigned to the Divine will, aa 
fully persuaded that a happy eternity is before him, would pass his 
days in tranquillity and joy, to which neither anxiety, nor pain, nor 
even the fear of death, could ever give any interruption. The best 
systems of Pagan ethics are very imperfect, and not free from absur- 
dity ; and in them are recommended modes of thinking unsuitable to 
human nature, and modes of conduct which, though they might have 
been useful in a political view, did not tend to virtue and happiness 
universal. But of all our Lord's institutions the object is, to pro. 
mote the happiness, by promoting the virtue, of all mankind. 

In the next plaee, his peculiar doctrines are not like any thing of 
human contrivance. " Never man spake like this man." One of 
the first names given to that dispensation of things which he came 1o 
introduce, was the kingdom, or the reign, of heaven. It was justly 
so called ; being thus distinguished, not only from the religion of 
Moses, the sanctions whereof related to the present life, but also 
from every human scheme of moral, political, or ecclesiastical legis- 
lation. 

The views of the heathen moralist extended not beyond this 
world; those of the Christian are fixed on that which is to come.- — 
The former was concerned for his own country only or chiefly ; Die 
latter takes concern in the happiness of all men of all nations, coa- 
ditions, and capacities. A few, and but a few, of the ancient phi* 
losophers, spoke of a future state of retribution as a thing desirable, 
and n©t improbable : revelation speaks .f it as certain ; and of the 
present life as a state of trial, wherein virtue or holiness is necessa- 
ry, not only to entitle us to that salvation which, through the mercy 
of God, and the merits of his Son, Christians are taught to look for, 
but also to prepare us, by habits of piety and benevolence, for a re- 
ward, which none but the pure in heart can receive, or could relish. 

The duties of piety, as far as the heart is concerned, were not 
much attended to by the heathen lawgivers. Cicero coldly ranks 
them with the social virtues, and says very little about them. The 
sacrifices were mere ceremony. And what the Stoics taught of re- 
signation to the will of heaven, or to the decrees of fate, was so re* 
puguant to some of their other tenets, that little good could be ex- 
pected from it. But of every Christian virtue, piety is an essential 
part. The love and the fear of God must every moment prevail in 
the heart of a follower ef Jesus • and whether he eat or drink, <ji 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Piece*. 103 

whatever he do, it must all he to the glory of the Creator. How 
different this from the philosophy of Greece and Rome ! 

In a word, the heathen morality, even in its best form, that is, as 
two or three of their best philosophers taught it, amounts to little 
more than this : " Be useful to yourselves, your friends, and your 
country ; so shall you be respectable while you live, and honoured 
when you die ; and it is to be hoped you may receive a reward in ano- 
ther life." The language of the Christian lawgiver is different. — 
" The world is not worthy of the ambition of an immortal being. — 
Its honours and pleasures have a tendency to debase the mind, and 
disqualify it for future happiness. Set therefore your affections on 
things above, and not on things on the earth. Let it be your su- 
preme desire to obtain the favour of God ; and, by a course of disci- 
pline, prepare yourselves for a re-admission into that rank which waa 
forfeited by the fall ; and for being again but a little lower than the 
angels, and crowned with glory and honour everlasting." 

What an elevation must it give to our pious affections, to contem 
plate the Supreme being and his Providence, as revealed to us in 
Scripture ! We are there taught, that man was created in the im 
age of God, innocent and happy : and that he had no sooner fallen 
into sin, than his Creator, instead of abandoning him, and his offi> 
spring, to the natural consequences of his disobedience, and of their 
hereditary depravity, was pleased to begin a wonderful dispensation 
of grace, in order to rescue from perdition, and raise again to hap- 
piness, as many as should acquiesce in the terms of the offered salva> 
tion, and regulate their lives accordingly. 

By the sacred books, that contain the history of this dispensation, 
we are further taught, that God is a spirit, unchangeable, and eter 
nal, universally present, and absolutely perfect ; that it is our duty 
to fear him, a-s a being of consummate purity and inflexible justice, 
and to love him as the father of Mercies, and the God of all consola- 
tion ; to trust in him as the friend, the comforter, and the almighty 
guardian of all who believe and obey him ; to rejoice in him as the 
best of Beings, and adore him as the greatest. We are taught, that 
he will make allowance for the frailties of our nature, and pardon 
the sins of those who repent : — and, that we may see, in the strong^ 
est light, his peculiar benignity to the human race, we are taught, 
that he gave his only son as our ransom and deliverer ; and we are 
not only permitted, but commanded, to pray to him, and address 
him as our Father : — we are taught, moreover, that the evils inci- 
dent to the state of trial are permitted by him, in order to exercise 
our virtue, and prepare us for a future state of never-ending felicity ; 
and that these momentary afflictions are pledges of his paternal love, 
and shall, if we receive them as such, and venerate Him according- 
ly, work out for us " an exceeding great and eternal weight of gJo* 
ry. w " If these hopes and these sentiments contribute more to our 
happiness and to the purification of our nature, than any thing else 
in the world can do, surely that religion, to which alone we owe these 
sentiments and hopes, must be the greatest blessing that ever was 
onofrrreii nn the Dosterity of Adam. 



104 Sequel to the English Reader. Part i 

Christianity proposes to our imitation the highest examples of bet 
pevolence, purity and piety. It shows, that all our actions, pur- 
poses, and thoughts, are to us of infinite importance ; their conse- 
quence being- nothing less than happiness, or misery, in the life to 
come : and thus it operates most powerfully on our self-love. ' B^ 
teaching 1 , that all mankind are brethren ; by commanding us to leva 
our neighbour as ourselves ; and by declaring every man our neigh- 
bour, to whom we have it in our power to do good, it improves be- 
nevolence to the highest pitch. By prohibiting revenge, malice, 
pride, vanity, envy, sensuality, and covetousness ; and by requiring 
lis to forgive, to pray for, and to bless our enemies, and to do to 
others as we would that they should do to us, it lays a restraint on 
every malevolent and turbulent passion ; and reduces the whole of 
social virtue to two or three precepts ; so brief, that they cannot be 
forgotten ; so plain, that they cannot be misunderstood ; so reasona- 
ble, that no man of sense controverts them ; and so well suited to 
human nature and human affairs, that every candid mind may easily, 
and on all occasions, apply them to practice. 

Christianity recommends the strictest self-attention, by this awfuj 
consideration, that God is continually present with us, knows what 
we think, as well as what we do, and will judge the world in righte 
ousness, and render unto every man according to his works. It 
makes us consider conscience, as his voice and law within us ; purity 
of heart, as that which alone can qualify us for the enjoyment of fu* 
ture reward ; and mutual love, or charity, as that without which all 
other virtues and accomplishments are of no value : and, by a view 
of things peculiarly striking, it causes vice to appear a most perni 
cious and abominable thing, which cannot escape punishment. In a 
word, " Christianity," as Bishop Taylor well observes, " is a doc. 
trine in which nothing is superfluous or burdensome ; and in which 
there is nothing wanting, which can procure happiness to mankind, 
or by which God can be glorified." dr. beattie. 

SECTION VIIT. 

The vision of Carazan : or, social love, and beneficence recommended* 

Carazan, the merchant of Bagdat, was eminent throughout aH 
the east for his avarice and his wealth ; his origin is obscure, as that 
of the spark which by the collision of steel and adamant is struck out 
©f darkness ; and the patient labour of persevering diligence alone 
had made him rich. It was remembered, that when he was indigent 
he was thought to be generous ; and he was still acknowledged to be 
inflexibly just. But whether in his dealings with men, he discover- 
ed a perfidy which tempted him to put his trust in gold, or whethe? 
in proportion as he accumulated wealth, he discovered his own im- 
portance to increase, Carazan prized it more as he used it less : he 
gradually lost the inclination to do good, as he acquired the power; 
and as the hand of time scattered snow upon his head, the freezing 
influence extended to his bosom. 

But though the door of Carazan was never opened by hospitality , 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 105 

nor his hand by compassion, yet fear led him constantly to the 
mosque at the stnted hours of prayer : he performed all the rites of 
devotion with the most scrupulous punctuality, and had thrice paid 
his vows at the temple of the prophet. That devotion which arises 
from the love of God, and necessarily includes the love of man, as 
it connects gratitude with beneficence, and exalts that which was 
moral to divine, confers new dignity upon goodness, and is the ob- 
ject not only of affection but reverence. On the contrary, the de- 
votion of the selfish, whether it be thought to avert the punishment 
which every one wishes to be inflicted, or to ensure it by the com- 
plication of hypocrisy with guilt, never fails to excite indignation 
and abhorrence. Carazan, therefore, when he had locked his door, 
and turning round with a look of circumspective suspicion, pro 
ceeded to the mosque, was followed by every eye with silent malig- 
nity ; the poor suspended their supplication, when he passed by ; 
though he was known by every man, yet no man saluted him. 

Such had long been th<^ life of Carazan, and such was the cha- 
racter which he had acquired, when notice was given by proclama- 
tion, that he was removed to a magnificent building in the centre 
of the city, that his table should be spread for the public, and that 
the stranger should be welcome to his bed. The multitude soon 
rushed like a orrent to his door, where they beheld him distribu 
ting bread to the hungry, and apparel to the naked, his eye soften 
ed with compassion, and his cheek glowing with delight. Every 
one gazed with astonishment at the prodigy ; and the murmur of 
innumerable voices increasing like the sound of approaching thun 
der, Carazan beckoned with his hand : attention suspended the tu 
mult in a moment; and he thus gratified the curiosity which procur 
ed him audience. 

"To him who touches the mountains and they smoke, the Al- 
mighty and the most merciful, be everlasting honour ! he has or- 
dained sleep to be the minister of instruction, and his visions have 
reproved me in the night. As I was sitting alone in my haram, 
with my lamp burning before me, computing the product of my 
merchandise, and exulting in the increase of my wealth, I fell into 
a deep sleep, and the hand of Him who dwells in the third heaven 
was upon me. I beheld the angel of death coming forward like 
a whirlwind, and he smote me before I could deprecate the blow. 
At the same moment I felt myself lifted from the ground, and trans- 
ported with astonishing rapidity through the regions of the air. The 
earth was contracted to an atom beneath ; and the stars glowed 
round me with a lustre that obscured the sun. The gate of para- 
dise was now in sight ; and I was intercepted by a sudden bright- 
ness which no human eye could behold. The irrevocable sentence 
was now to be pronounced ; my day of probation was past ; and front 
the evil of my life nothing could be taken away, nor could any 
thing be added to the good. When I reflected that my lot for eterni- 
ty was cast, which not all the powers of nature could reverse, my 
confidence totally forsook me ; and while I stood trembling and 



106 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1. 

silent, covered with confusion and chilled with horror, I was thus 
addressed by the radiance that flamed before me." 

" Carazan, thy worship has not been accepted, because it was net 
prompted by love of God ; neither can thy righteousness be reward- 
ed, because it was not produced by love of man : for thy own sake 
only, h.is thou rendered to every man his due ; and thou hast ap- 
proached the Almighty only for thyself. Thou has not looked up 
with gratitude, nor around thee with kindness. Around thee, thou 
has indeed beheld vice and folly : but if vice and folly could justify 
tli) parsimony, would they not condemn the bounty of Heaven ! If 
not upon the foolish and the vicious, where shall the sun diffuse his 
light, or the clouds distil their dew ? Where shall the lips of the spring 
breathe fragrance, or the hand of autumn diffuse plenty ? Remem 
ber, Carazan, that thou hast shut compassion from thy heart, and 
grasped thy treasures with a hand of iron ; thou hast lived for thy 
self; and, therefore, henceforth forever thou shalt subsist alone 
From the light of heaven, and from the society of all beings, shalt 
thou be driven ; solitude shall protract the lingering hours of eterni- 
ty, and darkness aggravate the horrors of despair." 

At this moment I was driven by some secret and irresistible pow 
er, through the glowing system of creation, and passed innumerable 
worlds in a moment. As I approached the verge of nature, I per 
ceived the shadows of total and boundless vacuity deepen befoi e me, 
a dreadful region of eternal silence, solitude, and darkness ! Unut- 
terable horror seized me at the prospect, and this exclamation burst 
from me with all the vehemence of desire : ' O ! that I had been 
doomed forever to the common receptacle of impenitence and guilt ' 
There society would have alleviated the torment of despair, and the 
rage of fire could not have excluded the comfort of light. Or, if I 
had been condemned to reside in a comet, that would return but 
once in a thousand years to the regions of light and life ; the hope 
of these periods, however distant, would cheer me in the dread in- 
terval of cold and darkness, and the vicissitudes would divide eter- 
nity into time.' While this thought passed over my mind, I lost 
sight of the remotest star, and the last glimmering of light was 
quenched in utter darkness. The agonies of despair every moment 
increased, as every moment augmented my distance from the last 
habitable world. I reflected with intolerable anguish, that when 
ten thousand thousand years had carried me beyond the reach of all 
but that Power who fills infinitude, I should still look forward into 
an immense abyss of darkness, through which I should still drive 
without succour and without society, farther and farther still, for- 
ever and forever. I then stretched out my hands towards the regions 
of existence, with an emotion that awakened me. — Thus have I 
been taught to estimate society, like every other blessing, by iti 
loss. My heart is warmed to liberality ; and I am zealous to com 
Jnunicate the happiness which I feel, to those from whom it is de 
lived ; for the society of one wretch, whom in the pride of prosperi 
fy I would have spurned from my door, would, in the dreadful soli 



Chap. 8 Promiscuous Pieces. 107 

tude to which I was condemned, have been more highly prized than 
the gold of Afric, or the gems of Golconda. 

At this reflection upon his dream, Carazan became suddenly silent, 
and looked upwards in ecsta y of gratitude and devotion. The mul- 
titude were struck at once vith the precept and example ; and the 
caliph, to whom the event vas related, that he might be liberal be- 
yond the power of gold, c mmanded it to be recorded for the bene- 
fit of posterity. 

HAWKESWORTH. 

SECTION IX. 

Creation the product of Divine Goodness. 

Creatton is a display of Supreme goodness, no less than of wis- 
dom and power. It is the communication of numberless benefits, 
together with existence, to all who live. Justly is the earth said ta 
be, " full of the goodness of the Lord." Throughout the whole sys- 
tem of things, we behold a manifest tendency to promote the bene- 
fit either of the rational, or the animal -creation. In some parts of 
nature, this tendency may be less obvious than in others. Objects, 
which to us seem useless, or hurtful, may sometimes occur; and 
strange it were, if in so vast and complicated a system, difficulties of 
this kind should not occasionally present themselves to beings, whose 
views are so narrow and limited as ours. It is well known, that in 
proportion as the knowledge of nature has increased among men, 
these difficulties have diminished. Satisfactory accounts have been 
given of many perplexing appearances. Useful and proper pur- 
poses have been found to be promoted, by objects which were, at 
first, thought unprofitable or noxious. 

Malignant must be the mind of that person ; with a distorted eye 
he must have contemplated creation, who can suspect, that it is not 
the production of Infinite Benignity and Goodness. How many 
clear marks of benevolent intention appear, every where around us ! 
What a profusion of beauty and ornament is poured forth on the face 
of nature ! What a magnificent spectacle presented to the view of 
man ! What supply contrived for his wants ! What a variety of ob- 
jects set before him, to gratify his senses, to employ his understand- 
ing, to entertain his imagination, to cheer and gladden his heart ! In- 
deed, the very existence of the universe is a standing memorial of the 
goodness of the Creator. For nothing except goodness could origi- 
nally prompt creation. The Supreme Being, self-existent and all- 
sufficient, had no wants which he could seek to supply. No new ac- 
cession of felicity or glory was to result to him, from creatures 
which he made. It was goodness communicating and pouring itself 
forth, goodness delighting to impart happiness in all its forms, which 
in the beginning created the heaven and the earth. Hence, those 
innumerable orders of living creatures with which the earth is peo- 
pled ; from the lowest class of sensitive being, to the highest rank of 
reason and intelligence. Wherever there is life, there is some de- 
cree of happiness; there are enjoyments suited to the different now. 



i08 Sequel to the English Reader. Part \ 

ers of feeling ; and earth, and air, and water, are, with magnificent 
liberality, made to teem with life. 

Let those striking- displays of Creating- Goodness call forth, on our 
part, responsive love, gratitude, and veneration. To this great Fa* 
ther of all existence and life, to Him who hath raised us up to be* 
hold the light of day, and to enjoy all the comiorts which his world 
presents, let our hearts send forth a perpetual hymn of praise. Even 
mg and morning let us celebrate Him, who maketh the morning and 
ihe evening to rejoice over our heads ; who " openeth his hand, and 
satisfieth the desire of every living thing." Let us rejoice, ihat we 
are brought into a world, which is the production of Infinite Good 
ness ; and over which a Supreme Intelligence presides. Convinced 
that he hateth not the works which he hath made, nor hath brought 
creatures into existence, merely to sutler unnecessary pain, let us, 
even in the midst of sorrow, receive with calm submission, whatevei 
he is pleased to send : thankful for what he bestows ; and satisfied, 
that, without good reason, he takes nothing away. 

It is not in the tremendous appearances of power merely, that a good 
and well-instructed man beholds the Creator of the world. In the 
constant and regular working of his hands, in the silent operation.' 
of his wisdom and goodness, ever going on throughout nature, he 
delights to contemplate and adore him. This is one of the chief fruit* 
to be derived from that more perfect knowledge of the Creator, 
which is imparted to us by the Christian revelation. Impressing our 
minds with a just sense of all his attributes, as not wise and great 
only, but as gracious, and merciful, let it lead us to view every oh. 
ject of calm and undisturbed nature, with a perpetual reference to 
its Author. We shall then behold all the scenes which the heavens 
and the earth present, with more refined feelings, and sublimer emo- 
tions, than they who regard them solely as objects of curiosity, or 
amusement. Nature will appear animated, and enlivened, by the 
presence of its Author. When the sun rises or sets in the heavens : 
when spring paints the earth, when summer shines in its glory, when 
autumn pours forth its fruits, or winter returns in its awful forms, 
we shall view the Creator manifesting himself in his works. We 
shall meet his presence in the fields. We shall feel his influence in 
the cheering beam. We shall hear his voice in the wind. We shall 
behold ourselves every where surrounded with the glory of that uni 
versal Spirit, who fills, pervades, and upholds all. We shall live in the 
world as in a great and august temple ; where the presence of the 
Divinity, who inhabits it, inspires devotion. bjlair. 

SECTION X. 

The benefits of religious retirement. 

An entire retreat from worldly affairs, is not what religion re- 
quires ; nor does it even enjoin a great retreat from them. Some 
stations of life would not permit this; and there are few stations 
which render it necessary. The chief field, both of the duty and of 
the improvement of man, lies in active life. By the graces and vi*. 



Chap. 8. Pi omiscuous Pieces. ] 8? 

♦ties which he exercises amidst his fellow-creatuies, he is trained np 
for heaven. A total retreat from the world, is so far from being 
the perfection of religion, that, some particular cases excepted, it is 
nu other than the abuse of it. 

But, though entire retreat would lay us aside from the part for 
which Providence chiefly intended us, it is certain, that, without oe- 
casional retirement, we must act that part very ill. There will be 
neither consistency in the conduct, nor dignity in the character, ef 
one who sets apart no share of his time for meditation and reflection. 
In the heat and bustle of life, while passion is every moment throw- 
ing false cclours on the objects around us, nothing can be viewed in 
a just light. If we wish that reason should exert her native power, 
we must step aside from the crowd, into the cool and silent shade 
[t is there that, with sober and steady eye, she examines what is 
good or ill, what is wise or foolish, in human conduct ; she look* 
back on the past, she looks forward to the future ; and forms plans, 
oot for the present moment only, but for the whole of life. How 
should that man discharge any part of his duty aright, who never 
suffers his passions to cool ? and how should his passions cool, who is 
engaged, without interruption, in the tumult of the world? This in- 
cessant stir may be called, the perpetual drunkenness of life. It 
raises that eager fermentation of spirit, which will be ever sending 
forth the dangerous fumes of rashness and folly. Whereas he whe 
mingles religious retreat with worldly affairs, remains calm, and mas- 
ter of himself. He is not whirled round, and rendered giddy, by the 
agitation of the world ; but, from that sacred retirement, in which 
be has been conversant among higher objects, comes forth into the 
world with manly tranquillity, fortified by the principles which he 
has formed, and prepared for whatever may befall. 

As he who i& unacquainted with retreat, cannot sustain any cha- 
racter with propriety, so neither can he enjoy the world with any 
advantage. Of the two classes of men who are most apt to be neg- 
ligent to this duty, the men of pleasure, and the men of business, ft 
is bard to say which surfer most, in point of enjoyment, from that 
neglect. To the former, every moment appears to be lost, which 
partakes not of the vivacity of amusement. To connect one plan of 
gaiety with another, is their whole stiidy ; till, in a very short time, 
nothing remains but to tread the same beaten round ; to enjoy what 
they have already enjoyed, and to see what they have often seen. 
Pleasures thus drawn to the dregs, become vapid and tasteless. 
What might have pleased long, if enjoyed with temperance, and 
mingled with retirement, being devoured with such eager haste, 
speedily surfeits and disgusts. Hence, these are the persons, who, 
after having run through a rapid course of pleasure, after having 
glittered for a few years in the foremost line of public amusements, 
are the most apt to fly at last to a melancholy retreat ; not led by re- 
ligion or reason, but driven by disappointed hopes, and exhausted 
spirits, to the pensive conclusion, that " all is vanity." 

If uninterrupted intercourse with the world wears out the man of 
pleasure, it no less oppresses the man of business and ambition. The 

K 



! 10 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

strongest spirit must at length sink under it. The happiest temper 
must be soured by incessant returns of the opposition, the inconstan. 
cy, and treachery of men. For he who lives always in the bustle 
of the world lives in a perpetual warfare. Here, an enemy encoun- 
ters ; there, a rival supplants him The ingratitude of a friend 
stings him this hour ; and the pride of a superior wounds him the 
next. In vain he flies for relief to trifling amusements. These 
may afford a temporary opiate to care ; but they communicate no 
strength to the mind. On the contrary, they leave it more soft and 
defenceless, when molestations and injuries renew their attack. 

Let him who wishes for an effectual cure to all the wounds which 
the world can inflict, retire from intercourse with men to intercourse 
with his Creator. When he enters into his closet, and shuts th& 
door, let him shut out, at the same time, all intrusion of worldly care ; 
and dwell among objects divine and immortal. — Those fair prospect* 
of order and peace, shall there open to his view, which form the 
most perfect contrast to the confusion and misery of this earth — 
The celestial inhabitants quarrel not ; among then) there is neither 
ingratitude, nor envy, nor tumult. Men may harass one another; 
but in the kingdom of heaven concord and tranquillity reign forever. 
From such objects, there beams upon the mind of the pious man, a 
pure and enlivening light ; there is diffused over his heart a holy 
ealm. His agitated spirit reassumes its firmness, and regains its 
peace. The world sinks in its importance ; and the load of mortali 
ty and misery loses almost all its weight. The " green pastures" 
open, and the "still waters" flow around him, beside which the 
" Shepherd of Israel" guides his flock. The disturbances and 
alarms, so formidable to those who are engaged in the tumults of 
the world, seem to him only like thunder rolling afar off; like the 
noise of distant waters, whose sound he hears, whose course h« 
traces, but whose waves touch him not. 

As religious retirement is thus evidently conducive to our happi- 
uess in this life, so it is absolutely necessary in order to prepare us 
for the life to come. He who lives always in public, cannot live to 
his own soul. Our intercourse with the world, is, in several respects, 
an education for vice. From our earliest youth, we are accustom- 
ed to hear riches and honours extolled as the chief possessions of 
man ; and proposed to us, as the principal aim of our future pursuits. 
We are trained up, to look with admiration on the flattering mark? 
of distinction which they bestow. In quest of those fancied bless- 
ings, we see the multitude around us eager and fervent. Princi 
pies of duty, we may, perhaps, hear sometimes inculcated ; but w« 
seldom behold them brought into competition with worldly profit. — 
The soft names, and plausible colours, under which deceit, sensuali 
ty, and revenge, are presented to us in common discourse, weaken, 
by degrees, our natural sense of the distinction between good and 
evil. We often meet with crimes authorised by high examples, and 
rewarded with the caresses and smiles of the world. Thus breathing 
habitually a contagious air, how certain is our rum, unless we some, 
times retreat from this pestilential region, and seek for proper cor 



Ihap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 1 1 1 

rectives of the disorders which are contracted there ? Religious 
retirement both abates the disease, and furnishes the remedy. It 
lessens the corrupting 1 influence of the world ; and it gives opportu- 
nity for better principles to exert their power. Solitude is the hal 
lowed ground which religion hath, in every age, chosen for her own. 
There, her inspiration is felt, and her secret mysteries elevate the 
soul ; there, falls the tear of contrition ; there, rises towards heaven 
the sigh of the heart ; there, melts the soul with all the tenderness 
of devotion, and pours Itself forth before him who made, and him 
who redeemed it. How can any one who is unacqainted with such 
employments of mind, be fit for heaven ? If heaven be the habita- 
tion of pure affections, and of intellectual joy, can such a state be 
relished by him who is always immersed among sensible objects, and 
has never acquired any taste for the pleasures of the understanding 
and the heart ? 

The great and the worthy, the pious and the virtuous, have ever 
been addicted to serious retirement It is the characteristic of litth? 
and frivolous minds, to be wholly occupied with the vulgar objects 
of life. These fill up their desires, and supply all the entertainment 
which their coarse apprehensions can relish. But a more refined 
and enlarged mind leaves the world behind it, feels a call for higher 
pleasures, and seeks them in retreat. The man of public spirit has 
recourse to it, in order to form plans for general good ; the man of 
genius, in order to dwell on his favourite themes ; the philosopher, to 
pursue his discoveries ; the saint, to improve himself in grace — 
' Isaac went out to meditate in the fields, at the evening tide." — 
David, amidst all the splendour of royalty, often bears witness both 
to the pleasure which he received, and to the benefit which he 
reaped from devout meditation. Our blessed Saviour himself, 
though, of all who ever lived on earth, he needed least the assistance 
of religious retreat, yet, by his frequent practice, has done it signal 
honour. Often were the garden, the mountain, and the silence of 
the night, sought by him, for intercourse with heaven. " When he 
had sent the multitude away, he went up into a mountain, apart, to 
pray. w 

The world is the great deceiver, whose fallacious arts it highly 
imports us to detect. But in the midst of its pleasures and pursuits, 
the detection is impossible. We tread, as within an enchanted cir- 
cle, where nothing appears as it truly is. It is only in retreat, that 
the charm can be broken. Did men employ that retreat, not in car- 
rying on the delusion which the world has begun, not in forming 
plans of imaginary bliss, but in subjecting the happiness which the 
world affords to a strict discussion, the spell would dissolve : and in 
the room of the unreal prospects, which had long amused them, the 
nakedness of the world would appear. 

Let us prepare ourselves, then, to encounter the light of truth : 
and resolve rather to bear the disappointment of some flattering 
hopes, than to wander forever in the paradise of fools. While others 
meditate in secret on the means of attaining worldly success, let it 
be our employment to scrutinize that success itself. Let u* calc«- 



J 12 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari I 

late fairly to what it amounts ; and whether we are not losers on the 
whole, by our apparent gain. Let us look back for this purpose, on 
gut past life. Let us trace it from our earliest youth ; and pul th& 
question to ourselves. What have been its happiest periods ? Were 
they those of quiet arid innocence, or those of ambition and intrigue ? 
Has our real enjoyment uniformly kept pace with what the world 
calls prosperity ? As we advanced in wealth 01 station, did we pro- 
portionally advance in happiness ? Has success, almost in any one 
instance, fulfilled our expectations? Where we reckoned upoa 
most enjoyment, have we not often found least ? Wherever guilf 
entered into pleasure, did not its sting- long remain, after the gratifi 
cation was past?< — Such questions as these, candidly answered, 
would in a great measure unmask the world. They would expose 
the vanity of its pretensions ; and convince us, that there are other 
springs than those which the world affords, to which we must apply 
'or happiness. 

While we commune with our heart concerning what the world 
now is, let us consider also what it will one day appear to be. Let 
us anticipate the awful moment of our bidding it an eternal farewell ; 
and think, what reflections will most probably arise, when we are 
quitting the field, and looking back on the scene of action. In 
wnat light will our closing eyes contemplate those vanities which 
now shine so bright, and those interests which now swell into so 
high importance ? What part shall we then wish to have acted ?— 
What will then appear momentous, what trifling, in human conduct? 
Let the sober sentiments whicli such anticipations suggest, temper 
now our misplaced ardour. Let the last conclusions which we shall 
form, enter into the present estimate which we make of the world 
and of life. 

Moreover, in communing with ourselves concerning- the world 
Jbt us contemplate it as subject to the Divine dominion. The great. 
er part of men behold nothing more than the rotation of human af- 
fairs. They see a great crowd ever in motion : the fortunes of men 
alternately rising and falling ; virtue often distressed, and prosperity 
appearing to be the purchase of worldly wisdom. But this is only 
the outside of things : behind the curtain, there is a far greate? 
fccene, which is beheld by none but the retired, religious spectator 
If we lift up that curtain, when we are alone with God, and vievr 
the world with the eye of a Christian; we shall see, that while 
"man's heart deviseth his way, it is the Lord who directeth his 
steps." We shall see, that however men appear to move and act 
after their own pleasure, they are, nevertheless, retained in secret 
bonds by the Almighty, and all their operations rendered subservi- 
ent to the ends of his moral government. We shall behold him 
obliging " the wrath of man to praise him ;" punishing the sinner by 
means of his own iniquities ; from the trials of the righteous, bring- 
ing" forth their reward ; and to a state of seeming universal confu- 
sion, preparing the wisest and most equitable issue. While the 
fashion " of this world" is passing fast away, we shall discern the glo. 
fj of another rising- fa ^ucpeed it. We shall behold all human 



Chap. fc. Promiscuous Piece*. 113 

events, our griefs and our joys, our love and our hatred, our cha- 
racter and memory, absorbed in the ocean of eternity ; and no trace 
ef our present existence left, except its being forever " well with 
ihe righteous, and ill with the wicked." blair. 



SECTION XI. 

History of ten days of Seged, emperor of Ethiopia. 

Of heavVs protection who can be 

So confident to utter this ? — 

To-morrow I will spend in bliss. f. lewis. 

Seged, lord of Ethiopia, to the inhabitants of the world : to the 
♦as of presumption, humility, and fear ; and to the daughters of sojp- 
*«v, contempt and acquiescence. 

Thus, in the twenty-seventh year of his reign, spoke Seged, tb$ 
TKmarch of forty nations, the distributer of the waters of the Nile,* 
H At length, Seged, thy toils are at an end ; thou hast reconciled di*=. 
affection, thou hast suppressed rebellion, thou hast pacified the jea- 
lousies of thy courtiers, thou hast chased war from thy confines, and 
erected fortresses in the lands of thy enemies. All who have offend- 
ed thee tresroble in thy presence; and wherever thy voice is heard, 
it is obeyed. Thy throne is surrounded by armies, numerous as the 
locusts of the summer, and resistless as the blasts of pestilence*— 
Thy magazines are stored with ammunition, thy treasures overflow 
with the tribute of conquered kingdoms. Plenty waves upon thy 
fields, and opulence glitters in thy cities. Thy nod is as the eartb* 
quake that shakes the mountains, and thy smile as the dawn of the- 
vernal day. In thy hand is the strength of thousands, and thy health 
is the health of millions. Thy palace is gladdened by the song of 
praise, and thy path perfumed by the breath of benediction. Thy 
subjects gaze upon thy greatness, and think of danger or misery no 
more. Why, Seged, wilt not thou partake of the blessings thou be 
etowest ? Why shouldst thou only forbear to rejoiee in this general 
felicity ? Why should thy fp.ee be clothed with anxiety, when the 
meanest of those who call thee sovereign, gives the day to festivity, 
and the night to peace. At length, Seged, reflect and be wise.**- 
What is the gift of conquest but safety ? Why are riches collected 
but to purchase happiness ?" 

Seged then ordered the house of pleasure, built in an island of ita 
lake Dambea, to be prepared for his reception. 

** I will retire,' 7 says he, " for ten days from tumult and care, 
from councils and decrees. Long quiet is not the lot of tne govern^ 
ors of nations, but a cessation of ten days cannot be denied me^* 
This short interval of happiness may surely be secured from the m* 
terruption of fear or perplexity, sorrow or disappointment. I will 
exclude all trouble from my abode, and remove from my thoughts 
whatever may coniuse the harmony of the concert, or abate tkw 
•westaess of the banquet I will fill the whole capacity ofravew 



114 Sequel to the English Reader. Part I 

with enjoyment, and try what it is to live without a wisS unsatk 
fied." 

In a few days the orders were performed, and Seged hasted to the 
palace of Dambea, which stood in an island cultivated only for plea, 
sure, planted with every flower that spreads its colours to the sun, 
and every shrub that sheds fragrance in the air. In one part of this 
extensive garden, were open walks for excursions m the morning ; 
m another, thick groves, and silent arbours, and bubbling fountains 
for repose at noon. All that could solace the sense, or flatter the 
fancy ; all that industry could extort from nature, or wealth furnish 
to art ; all that conquest could seize, or beneficence attract, was col- 
leGted together, and every perception of delight was excited and 
gratified. 

Into this delicious region Seged summoned all the persons of his 
court, who seemed eminently qualified to receive or communicate 
pleasure. His call was readily obeyed ; the young, the fair, the viva- 
cious, and the witty, were all in haste to be sated with felicity. They 
sailed jocund over the lake, which seemed to smooth its surface be- 
fore them : their passage was cheeied with music, and their hearts 
dilated with expectation. 

Seged landing here with his band of pleasure, determined from 
that hour to break off all acquaintance with discontent ; to give his 
heart for ten days io ease and jollity ; and then to fall back to the 
common state of man, and suffer his life to be diversified, as before 
with joy and sorrow. 

He immediately entered his chamber, to consider where he should 
begin his circle of happiness. He had all the artists of delight be- 
fore him, but knew not whom to call, since he could not enjoy one, 
but by delaying the performance of another ; he chose and rejected, he 
resolved and changed his resolution, till his faculties were harassed, 
and his thoughts confused; then returned to the apartment where 
nis presence was expected, with languid eyes and clouded counte- 
nance, and spread the infection of uneasiness over the whole assem- 
bly. He observed their depression, and was offended ; for he found 
his vexation increased by those whom he expected to dissipate and 
relieve it. He retired again to his private chamber, and sought for 
consolation in his own mind ; one thought flowed in upon another ; a 
.oog succession of images seized his attention; the moments crept im- 
perceptibly away through the gloom of pensiveness, till, having re- 
covered his tranquillity, he lifted up his head, and saw the lake 
brightened by the setting sun. " Such," said Seged, sighing, " is 
the longest day of human existence : before we have learned to use 
it> we find it at an end." 

The regret which be felt for the loss of so great a part of his first 
day, took from him all his disposition to enjoy the evening ; and, after 
having endeavoured, for the sake of his attendants, to force an air of 
gaiety, and excite that mirth which he could not share, he resolved 
to refer his hopes to the next morning ; and lay down to partake 
with the slaves of labour and poverty the blessings of sleep. 

He rose early the second morning, and resolved now to be happy 



CHap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces, r^ f*~~~ ' US 

He therefore fixed upon the gate of the palace an edict, importing, 
that whoever^ during nine days, should appear in the presence of the 
king With dejected countenance, or utter any expression of discon- 
tent or sorrow, should be driven forever from the palace of Dambea 

This edict was immediately made known in every chamber of the 
court and bower of the gardens. Mirth was frighted away, and they 
who were before dancing in the lawns, or singing in the shades, were 
at once engaged in the care of regulating their looks, that Seged 
iiiight find his will punctually obeyed, and see none among them 
liable to banishment. 

Seged now met every face settled in a smile i but \ smile that be- 
trayed solicitude, timidity, and constraint. He accosted his favour- 
ites with familiarity and softness ; but they durst not speak without 
premeditation, lest they should be convicted of discontent or sorrow. 
He proposed diversions, to which no objection was made, because 
objection would have implied uneasiness ; but they were regarded 
with indifference by the courtiers, who had no other desire than to 
signalize themselves by clamorous exultation. He offered various 
topics of conversation, but obtained only forced jests, and laborious 
laughter ; and, after many attempts to animate his train to confi- 
dence and alacrity, was obliged to confess to himself the impotence 
of command, and resign another day to grief and disappointment 

He at last relieved his companions from their terrors, and shut 
himself up in his chamber, to ascertain, by different measures, the 
felicity of the succeeding days. At length he threw himself on the 
bed, and closed his eyes ; but imagined, in his sleep, that his palaoe 
and gardens were overwhelmed by an inundation, and waked with 
all the terrors of a man struggling in the water. Pie composed him 
self again to rest, but was frighted by an imaginary irruption into 
his kingdom ; and striving, as is usual in dreams, without ability to 
move, fancied himself betrayed to his enemies, and again started up 
with horror and indignation. 

It was now day, and fear was so strongly impressed on his mind, 
that he could sleep no more. He rose, but his thoughts were filled 
with the deluge and invasion ; nor was he able to disengage his atten* 
tion, or mingle with vacancy and ease in any amusement. At length 
his perturbation gave way to reason, and he resolved no longer to 
be harassed by visionary miseries ; but before this resolution could 
be completed, half the day had elapsed. He felt a new conviction of 
the uncertainty of human schemes, and could not forbear to bewail 
the weakness of that being, whose quiet was to be interruped by va- 
pours of the fancy. Having been first disturbed by a dream, he af> 
terwards grieved that a dream could disturb him. He at last dis 
covered that his terrors and grief were equally vain ; andthat to lose 
the present in lamenting the past, was voluntarily to protract a mm 
lancholy vision. The third day was now declining, and Seged again 
resolved to be happy on the morrow 



»ll Sequel to the English Reader. Part I 

SECTION XII. 

History of Seged conittiitied. 

Or* the fourth morning Seged rose early, refreshed with sleep, 
rigorous with health, and eager with expectation. He entered thfc 
garden attended by the princes and ladies of his court ; and seeing 
nothing about him but airy cheerfulness, began to say to his heart, 
" This day shall be a day of pleasure." The sun played upon the 
water, the birds warbled in the groves, and the gales quivered among 
the branches. He roved from walk to walk as chance directed him j 
and sometimes listened to the songs, sometimes mingled with the 
dancers, sometimes let loose his imagination in flights of merriment ; 
and sometimes uttered grave reflections, and sententious maxima, 
Send feasted on the admiration with which they were received. 

Thus the day rolled on, without any accident of vexation, or in* 
trusion of melancholy thoughts. All that beheld him caught glad 
ness from his looks, and the sight of happiness, conferred by himself, 
filled his heart with satisfaction : but having passed three hours in 
this pleasing luxury, he was alarmed on a sudden by a universal 
scream among the women ; and turning back, saw the whole assem- 
bly flying in confusion. A young crocodile had risen out of the lake, 
and was ranging the garden in wantonness or hunger. Seged be- 
held him with indignation, as a disturber of his felicity, and chased 
kim back into the lake ; but could not persuade his retinue to stay, 
or free their hearts from the terror which had seized upon them. — 
The princesses enclosed themselves in the palace, and could yet 
scarcely believe themselves in safety. Every attention was fixed 
»pon the late danger and escape, and no mind was any longer at 
leisure for gay sallies, or careless prattle. 

Seged had now no other employment, than to contemplate the in- 
numerable casualties, which lie in ambush on every side to intercept 
die happiness of man, and break in upon the hour of delight and tran- 
quillity. He had, however, the consolation of thinking, that he had 
not been disappointed by his own fault ; and that the accident which 
had blasted the hopes of the day, might easily be prevented by fu- 
ture caution. 

That he might provide for the pleasure of the next morning, be 
resolved to repeaMiis penal edict, since he had already found, that 
discontent and melancholy were not to be frightened away by the 
threats of authority, and that pleasure would only reside where sbe 
was exempted from control. He therefore invited all the compa- 
nions of his retreat to unbounded pleasantry, by proposing prizes for 
those who should, on the following day, distinguish themselves by 
way festive performances ; the tables of the anti-chamber weie cover- 
ed with gold and pearls, and robes and garlands decreed the rewards 
f those who could refine elegance, or heighten pleasure. 

At this display of riches, every eye immediately sparkled, and every 
tongue was busied in celebrating the bounty and magnificence of 
the emperor But when Seged entered, in hones of uncomuk. « *». 



Chap. 8. Promiscuous Pieces. 111 

tertainment from universal emulation, he found that any passion too 
6trongly agitated, puts an end to that tranquillity which is necessary 
to mirth , and that the mind that is to be moved by the gentle venti- 
lations of gaiety, must be first smoothed by a total calm. Whatevei 
we ardently wish to gain, we must, in the same degree, be afraid ic 
loose ; and fear and pleasure cannot dwell together. 

All was now care and solicitude. Nothing- was done or spoken, 
but with so visible an endeavour at perfection, as always failed tc 
delight, though it sometimes forced admiration : and Seged could nol 
but observe with sorrow, that his prizes had more influence than 
himself. As the evening approached, the contest grew more earnest ; 
and those who were forced to allow themselves excelled, began to 
discover the malignity of defeat, first by angry glances, and at last 
by contemptuous murmurs. Seged likewise shared the anxiety of 
the day ; for considering himself as obliged to distribute, with exact 
justice, the prizes which had been so zealously sought, he durst ne. 
ver remit his attention, but passed his time upon the rack of doubt, 
in balancing- different kinds of merit, and adjusting- the claims of ail 
the competitors. — At last, knowing- that no exactness could satisfy 
those whose hopes he should disappoint ; and thinking-, that on a day 
set apart for happiness, it would be cruel to oppress any heart with 
sorrow ; he declared, that all had pleased him alike, and dismissed 
nil with presents of equal value. 

Seged soon saw that his caution had not been able to avoid offence. 
They who had believed themselves secure of the highest prizes, were 
not pleased to be levelled with the crowd ; and though by the libe* 
rality of the king-, they received more than his promise had entitled 
them to .;xpect, they departed unsatisfied, because they were honour- 
ed with no distinction, and wanted an opportunity to triumpn in the 
mortification of their opponents. " Behold here," said Seged, " the 
condition of him who places his happiness in the happiness of others. M 
He then retired to meditate ; and while the courtiers were repining 
at his distributions, saw the fifth sun go down in discontent. 

The next dawn renewed his resolution to be happy. But having 1 
learned how little he could effect by settled schemes, or preparatory 
measures, he thought it best to give up one day entirely to chance, 
and left every one to please and be pleased in his own way. 

This relaxation of regularity diffused a general complaisance 
through the whole court ; and the emperor imagined, that he had at 
last found the secret of obtaining an interval of felicity. But as he 
was roving in this careless assembly with equal carelessness, he 
overheard one of his courtiers in a close arbour murmuring alone : 
y What merit has Seged above us, that we should thus fear and obey 
him? a man, whom, whatever he may have formerly performed, his 
luxury now shows to have the same weakness with ourselves." — 
This charge affected him the more, as it was uttered by one whom 
he had always observed among the most abject of his flatterers. At 
first his indignation prompted him to severity ; but reflecting, that 
what was spoken without intention to h< heard, was to be consider? 
id as only thought, and was perhaps but the sudden burst of casual 



' '•< Sequel to the Englith Reader. Part 1 

and temporary vexation, he invented some decent pretence to send 
him away, that his retreat might not be tainted with the breath 
of envy ; and after the struggle of deliberation was past, and all 
desire of revenge utterly suppressed, passed the evening not only 
with tranquillity, but triumph, though none but himself was con- 
scious of the victory. 

The remembrance of this clemency cheered the beginning of 
the seventh day ; and nothing happened to disturb the pleasure of 
Seged, till looking on the tree that shaded him, he recollected, th 
under a tree of the same kind he had passed the night after his de- 
feat in the kingdom of Goiama. The reflection on his loss, his dis- 
honour, and the miseries which his subjects suffered from the inva- 
der, filled him with sadness. At last he shook off the weight of sor- 
row, and began to solace himself with his usual pleasures, when his 
tranquillity was again disturbed by jealousies which ihe late contest 
for the prizes had produced, and which, having tried to pacify them 
by persuasion, he was forced to silence by command. 

On the eighth morning, Seged was awakened early by an unusual 
hurry in the apartments ; and inquiring the cause, he was told that 
the Princess Balkis was seized with sickness. He rose, and calling 
the physicians, found that they had little hope of her recovery. — 
Here was an end of jollity ; all his thoughts were now upon his daugh- 
ter ; whose eyes he closed on the tenth day. 

Such were, the days which Seged of Ethiopia had appropriated to 
a short respiration from the fatigues of war, and the cares of govern- 
ment. This narrative he has bequeathed to future generations, that 
no man hereafter may presume to say, " This day shall be a day of 
happiness." dr. joi'nson. 

SECTION XIII 

The Vision of Theodore, the hermit of Teneriffe, found in hU 
cell* 

Son of perseverance, whoever thou art, whose curiosity has led 
thee hither, read and be wise. He that now calls upon thee is Theo- 
dore, the hermit of TeneriiFe, who in the fifty-seventh year of his re- 
treat, left this instruction to mankind, lest his solitary hours should 
be spent in vain. 

1 was once what thou art now, a groveller on the earth, and a ga. 
ser at the sky ; I trafficked and heaped wealth together, I loved and 
was favoured, I wore the robe of honour, and heard the music of 
adulation ; I was ambitious, and rose to greatness ; I was unhappy, 
and retired. I sought for some time what I at length found here, a 
place where all real wants might be easily supplied ; and where I 
might not be under the necessity of purchasing the assistance of 

* Dr. Anderson, in hu judicious and well written life of Dr. Jo?jn- 
«on, says, " This *s a most beautiful allegory of human life, under the 
figure of ascending the Mountain of Existence. Johnson thought it th* 
best of his writings." 






Chap. 8. Promiscuous Piece* 11§ 

men, by the toleration of their foilies. Here i saw fruits, and herbs, 
and water ; and here determined to wait the hand of death, which 
I hope, when at last it comes, will fall lightly upon me. 

Forty-eight years had I now passed in forge tfulness of all mortal 
cares, and without any inclination to wander farther than the neces- 
sity of procuring sustenance required : but as I stood one day be. 
lding the rock that overhangs my cell, I found in myself a desire 
climb it ; and when I was on its top, was in the same manner de- 
rmined to scale the next, till by degrees I conceived a wish to view 
the summit of the mountain, at the foot of which I had so long resid • 
ed. This motion of my thoughts I endeavoured to suppress, not be- 
cause it appeared criminal, but because it was new ; and all change, 
not evidently for the better, alarms a mind taught by experience to 
distrust itself. I was often afraid that my heart was deceiving me ; 
that my impatience of confinement rose from some earthly passion; 
and that my ardour to survey the works of nature, was only a hidden 
longing to mingle once again in the scenes of life. I therefore endea- 
voured to settle my thoughts into their former state ; but found their 
distraction every day greater. ' I was always reproaching myself 
with the want of happiness within my reach ; and at last began to 
question whether it was not laziness, rather than caution, that re- 
itrained me from climbing to the summit of TeneriiFe. 

1 rose therefore before the day, and began my journey up the steep 
of the mountain ; but I had not advanced far, old as I was, and 
burdened with provisions, when the day began to shine upon me ; the 
declivities grew more precipitous, and the sand slided from beneath 
my feet : at last, fainting with labour, I arrived at a small plain al- 
most enclosed by rocks, and open only to the east. I sat down to 
rest a while, in full persuasion that when I had recovered my 
strength, I should proceed on my design : but when once I had tast- 
ed ease, I found many reasons against disturbing it. The branches 
•pread a shade over my head, and the gales of spring wafted odours 
to my bosom. 

As I sat thus, forming alternately excuses for delay, and resolu 
tions to go forward, an irresistible heaviness suddenly surprised me. 
I laid my head upon the bank, and resigned myself to sleep ; when 
methought 1 heard the sound as of the flight of eagles, and a being of 
more than human dignity stood before me. While I was deliberat- 
ing how to address him, he took me by the hand with an air of kind- 
ness, and asked me solemnly, but without -severity, " Theodore, whi- 
ther art thou going?" I am climbing, answered I, to the top of the 
mountain, to enjoy a more extensive prospect of the works of nature. 
*' Attend first," said he, " to the prospect which this place affords, 
and what thou dost not understand I will explain. I am one of tlie 
benevolent beings who watch over the children of the dust, to 
preserve them from those evils which will not ultimately terminate 
in good, and which they do not, by their own faults, bring upon 
themselves. Look round therefore without fear : observe, contem. 
plate, and be instructed." 

Encouraged by this assurance, I looked and beheld a mountain 



120 Sequel lo Ihe English Reader. Pari 1 

higher than Teneriffe, to the summit of which the human eye could 
never reach. When I had tired myself with gazing upon its height 
I turned my eyes toward its foot, whicn I couid easily discover, hu» 
was amazed to find it without foundation, and placed inconceivably 
in emptiness and darkness. Thus I stood terrified and confused 
above were tracts inscrutable, and below was total vacuity. Bui 
my protector, with a voice of admonition, cried out, " Theodore, be 
not affrighted, but raise thy eyes again • the Mountain of Existence 
is before thee ; survey it and be wise." 

I then looked with more deliberate attention, and observed the 
bottom of the mountain to be of a gentle rise, and overspread with 
flowers ; the middle to be more steep, embarrassed with crags, and 
interrupted by precipices, over which hung branches loaded with 
fruits, and among which were scattered palaces and bowers. The 
tracts which my eye could reach nearest the top, were generally 
barren ; but there were among the clefts of the rocks a lew hardy 
evergreens, which, though they did not give much pleasure to the 
sight or smell, yet seemed to cheer the labour and facilitate the steps 
of those who were clambering among them. 

Then, beginning to examine more minutely the different parts, I 
Observed at a great distance a multitude of both sexes, issuing into 
view from the bottom of the mountain. Their first actions I could 
not accurately discern ; but as they every moment approached nearer, 
I found that they amused themselves with gathering flowers, under 
the superintendence of a modest virgin in a white lobe, who seemed 
not over solicitous to confine them to anj r settled place or certain 
track; fo\ she knew that the whole ground was smooth and solid, 
and that the} 7 could not easily be hurt or bewildered. When, as it 
often happened, they plucked a thistle for a flower, Innocence, so 
was she called, would smile at the mistake. Happy, said I, are they 
who are under so gentle a government, and yet are safe. But I had 
no opportunity to dwell long on the consideration of their felicity i 
for I found that Innocence continued her attendance but a little way , 
and seemed to consider only the flowery bottom of the mountain as 
her proper province. Those whom she abandoned scarcely knew 
that they were left, before they perceived themselves in the hands oi 
Education, a nymph more severe in her aspect, and imperious in her 
commands, who confined them to certain paths, in their opinion too 
narrow and too rough. These they were continually solicited to 
leave, by Appetite, whom Education could never fright away, 
though she sometimes awed her to such timidity, that the effects of 
her presence were scarcely perceptible. Some went back to the 
first part of the mountain and seemed desirous of continuing busied 
in plucking flowers, but were no longer guarded by Innocence j and 
such as Education could not force back, proceeded up the mountain 
by some miry road, in which they were seldom seen, and scarcely 
ever regarded. 

As Education led her troop up the mountain, nothing was more 
observable than that she was frequently giving them cautions to be- 
JFare of Habits ; suC was calling out to one or another, at ever? 



Ckap. 8 Promiscuous Pieces. 121 

step, that a Habit was ensnaring them ; that they would he under 
the dominion of Habit before they perceived their danger ; and that 
those whom a Habit should once subdue, had little hope of regaining 
their liberty. 

Of this caution, so frequently repeated, 1 was very solicitous to 
know the reason, when my protector directed my regard to a troop 
of pygmies, which appeared to walk silently before those that wera 
climbing the mountain, and each to smooth the way before her fol- 
lower. I found that I had missed the notice of them before, both be- 
cause they were so minute as not easily to be discerned, and be- 
cause they grew every moment nearer in their colour to the objects 
*vith which they were surrounded. As the followers of Education 
did not appear to be sensible of the presence of these dangerous as- 
sociates, or, ridiculing their diminutive size, did not think it possible 
that human beings should ever be brought into subjection by ene- 
mies so feeble, they generally heard her precepts of vigilance with 
wonder ; and, when they thought her eye withdrawn, treated them 
with contempt. Nor could I myself think her cautions so necessary 
as her frequent inculcations seemed to suppose, till I observed that 
each of these petty beings held secretly a chain in her hand, with 
which she prepared to bind those whom she found within her power. 
Vet these Habits, under the eye of Education, went quietly forward, 
and seemed very little to increase in bulk or strength ; for thougb 
they were always willing to join with Appetite, yet when Educatioa 
kept them apart from her, they would very punctually obey com- 
mand, and make the narrow roads in which they were confined easier 
and smoother. 

It was observable, that their stature was never at a stand, but 
continually growing or decreasing, yet not always in the same pro- 
portions ; nor could I forbear to express my admiration., whea I saw 
in how much less time they generally gained than lost bulk. Thoug*h 
they grew slowly in the road of Education, it might, however be 
perceived that they grew ; but if they once deviated at the call of Ap- 
petite, their stature soon became gigantic ; and their strength was 
such, that Education pointed out to her tribe maay that were led ia 
chains by them, whom she could never more rescue from their slave- 
ry. She pointed them out, but with little effect ; for all her pupils 
appeared confident of their own superiority to the strongest Habit, 
and some seemed in secret to regret that they were hindered frora 
following the triumph of Appetite. 

It was the peculiar artifice of Habit not to suffer her power to tm 
felt at first. Those whom she led, she had the address of appearing 
only to attend, but was continually doubling her chains upon her 
eompanions ; which were so slender in themselves, and so silently 
fastened, that while the attention was engaged by other objects, they 
were not easily perceived. Each link g-rew tighter as it had been 
longer worn ; and when, by continual additions, they became so 
beavy as to be felt, they were very frequently too strong to be broken. 

Whfia Education had proceeded, in this manner, to the part cf 
the mountara where the declivity began to grow craggy, she resiga- 



JUKI Seqvrt to the English Reader. P«.rt 1, 

ed her charge tc two powers of supeiior aspect. The luraner of 
thern appeared capable of presiding in senates, or governing nations, 
and yet watched the steps of the other with the most aixdous atten. 
tion ; and was visibly confounded and perplexed, if ever &he suffered 
her regard to be drawn away. The other seemed to approve her 
submission as pleasing, but with such a condescension as plainly show- 
ed that she claimed it as due ; and indeed so great was her dignity 
and sweetness, that he who would not reverence, must not behold 
her. 

" Theodore," said my protector, " be fearless, and be wise ; ap 
proach these powers, whose dominion extends to all the remaining 
part of the Mountain of Existence." I trembled, and ventured tt 
address the inferior nymph, whose eyes, piercing and awful, I was 
not able to sustain. " Bright power," said I, " by whatever name 
it is lawful to address thee, tell me, thou who presidest here, on what 
condition thy protection will be granted ?" " It will be granted," said 
she, " only to obedience. I am Reason, of ail subordira' 3 beings 
the noblest and the greatest; who, if thou wilt receive my laws, will 
reward thee like the rest of my votaries, bv conducting thee to Re- 
iigicn." Charmed by her voice and aspect, I professed my readi. 
ness to follow her. She then presented me to her Mistress, wbc 
looked upon me with tenderness. I bov/ed before her, and sh* 
smiled. 

SECTION XIV 

The vision of Theodore continued. 

When Education delivered up those for whose happiness she had 
been so long solicitous, she seemed to expect that they should ex 
press some gratitude for her care, or some reg-ret at the loss of that 
protection which she had hitherto afforded them. But it was easy 
to discover, by the alacrity which broke out at her departure, that 
her presence had been long displeasing, and that she had been 
teaching those who felt in themselves no want of instruction. They 
all agreed in rejoicing that they would no longer be subject to liei 
caprices, or disturbed by her documents, but should be now under 
the direction only of Reason, to whom they made no doubt of being 
able to recommend themselves, by a steady adherence to all hei 
precepts. Reason counselled them, at their first entrance upon hei 
province, to enlist themselves among the votaries of Religion ; and 
informed them, that if they trusted to her alone, they would find the 
name rate with her other admirers, whom she had not been able to 
secu7B ig'ainat Appetites and Passions, and who, having been seised 
*u- Habits in the regions of Desire, had been dragged away to the 
miverns of Despair. Her ad.nonition was vt.in, the greater numbei 
ileclared against any other direction, and doubted not but by bet 
wiperintendency they should climb with safety up the Mountain oi 
Existence. " My power," said Reason, " is to advise, not to com. 
pel ; 1 have already told you the danger of jour choice. The patb 
teems now plain and even, but there are asperities and pitfalls, ove» 



Chap 3. Promiscuous. Pieces 123 

which religion only can conduct you. Look upwards, and you per- 
ceive t mist before you settled upon the highest visible part of the 
mountain ; a mist by which my prospect is terminated, and which is 
pierced only by the eyes of Religion. Beyond it are the temples of 
Happiness, in which those who climb the precipice by her direction, 
after the toil of their pilgrimage, repose forever. I know not the 
way, and therefore can only conduct you to a better guide. Pride 
tias sometimes reproached me with the narrowness of my view ; but 
when she endeavoured to extend it, could only show me below the 
mist, the bowers of content : even they vanished as I fixed my eyes 
apon them ; and those wnom she persuaded to travel towards them 
were enchained by Habits, and ingulfed by Despair, a cruel tyrant, 
whose caverns are beyond the darkness, on the right side and on the 
ieft, from whose prisons none can escape, and whom I cannot teach 
you to avoid." 

Such was the declaration of Reason to those who demanJed her 
protection. Some that recollected the dictates of Education, find- 
ing them now seconded by another authority, submitted with reluc- 
tance to the strict decree, and engaged themselves among the fol- 
lowers of Religion, who were distinguished by the uniformity of their 
march, though many of them were women, and by their continual 
endeavours to move upwards, without appearing to regard the pros- 
pects which at every step courted their attention. 

All those who determined to follow either Reason or Religion, 
were continually importuned to forsake the road, sometimes by 
Passions, and sometimes by Appetites, of whom both had reason to 
boast the success of their artifices ; for so many were drawn into 
by-paths, that any way was more populous than the right. The at- 
tacks of the Appetites were more impetuous, those of the Passions 
longer continued. The Appetites turned their followers directly 
from the true way, but the Passions marched at first in a path near- 
ly in the same direction with that of Reason and Religion ; but devia- 
ted by slow degrees, till at last they entirely changed their course. 
Appetite drew aside the dull, and Passion the sprightly. Of the Ad- 
petites, Lust was the strongest ; and of the Passions, Vanity, The 
most powerful assault w?s to be feared, when a Passion and an Ap- 
petite joined their enticements ; and the path of Reason was best foL 
lowed, when a Passion called to one side, and an Appetite to the 
other. 

These seducers had the greatest success upon the followers of Rea- 
son, over whom they scarcely ever failed to prevail, except when 
Uiey counteracted one another. They had not the same triumphs 
over the votaries of Religion ; for though they were often led aside 
for a time, Religion commonly recalled them by her emissary Con- 
science, before Habit had time to enchain them. But they that pro- 
fessed to obey Reason, if once they forsook her, seldom returned; 
for she had no messenger to summon them but Pride, who generally 
betrayed her confidence, and employed all her skill to support Pas- 
sion ; and if ever she did her duty, was found unable to prevail if 
Habit had interposed 



124 Sequel to the English Reader Part I 

I soon found that the great danger to the followers of Religion , 
iras only from Habit ; every other power was easily resisted, nor di J 
khey find any difficulty when they inadvertently quitted her, to fin i 
her again by the direction of Conscience, unless they had given time 
to Habit to draw her chain behind them, and bar up the way by 
which they had wandered. Of some of those, the condition was 
justly to be pitied, who turned at every call of Conscience, and tried, 
tut without effect, to burst the chains of habit : saw Rehgion walking 
forward at a distance, saw her with reverence, and longed to join 
her ; but were, whenever they approached her, withheld by Habit, 
and languished in sordid bondage, which they could not escape, 
though they scorned and hated it. 

It was evident that the Habits were so far from growing weaker 
by these repeated contests, that if they were not totally overcome, 
every struggle enlarged their bulk, and increased their strength ; 
and a Habit, opposed and victorious, was more than twice as strong, 
as oefore the contest. The manner in which those who were weary 
of their tyranny endeavoured to escape from them, appeared by tha 
event to be generally wrong ; they tried to loose their chains one by 
one, and to retreat by the same degrees as they advanced ; but be. 
fore the deliverance was completed, Habit always threw new chains 
upon her fugitive. Nor did any escape her but those who, by an 
effort sudden and violent, burst their shackles at once, and left Ler 
at a distance ; and even of these, many, rushing too precipitately for. 
ward, and hindered by their terrors from stopping where they were 
safe, were fatigued with their own vehemence, and resigned them* 
selves again to that power from whom an escape must be so deaiiy 
bought, and whose tyranny was little felt, except when it was re 
sisted. 

Some however there always were, who, when they found Habi« 
prevailing over them, called upon Reason or Religion for assistance : 
each of them willingly came to the succour of her suppliant ; but 
neither with the same strength, nor the same success. Habit, in. 
solent with her power, would often presume to parley with Reason, 
and offer to loose some of her chains if the rest might remain. To 
this, Reason, who was never certain of victory, frequently consent, 
ed, but always found her concession destructive, and saw the cap- 
tive led away by Habit to his former slavery. Religion never sub- 
rnitted to treaty, but held out her hand with certainty of conquest ; 
and if the captive to whom she gave it, did not quit his hold, always 
led him away in triumph, and placed him in the direct path to the 
temple of Happiness ; where Reason never failed to congratulate 
his deliverance, and encourage his adherence to that power, to whos* 
feimely succour he was indebted for it. 



Chap 8 Promiscuous Pieces* 

SECTION XV. 

The Vision of Theodore continued. 

Wi/eN tire traveller was again placed in the road of Happiness, I 
Saw Habit again gliding- before him, but reduced to the stature of a 
dwarf, without strength and without activity ; but when the Passions 
or Appetites, which had before seduced him, made their approach, 
Habit would on a sudden start into size, and with unexpected vio- 
lence push him towards them. The wretch, thus impelled on one 
side, and allnred on the other, too frequently quitted the road of Hap- 
piness, to which, after his second deviation from it, he rarely return- 
ed. But, by a timely call upon Religion, the force of Habit was 
eluded, her attacks grew fainter, and at last her correspondence 
with the enemy was entirely destroyed. She then began to employ 
those restless faculties in compliance with the power which she could 
aot overcome ; and as she grew again in stature and in strength, 
cleared away the asperities of the road to Happiness. 

From this road I could not easily withdraw my attention, because 
all who travelled it appeared cheerful and satisfied ; and the far- 
ther they proceeded, the greater appeared their alacrity, and the 
stronger their conviction of the wisdom of their guide. Some who 
had never deviated but by short excursions, had Habit in the mid- 
dle of their passage vigorously supporting them, and driving off the 
Appetites and Passions which attempted to interrupt their progress. 
Others, who had entered this road late, or had long forsaken it, were 
toiling on without her help at least, and commonly against her en. 
^eavours. But I observed, when they approached to the barren top, 
that few were able to proceed without some support from Habit , 
and that they, whose Habits were strong, advanced towards the mists 
with little emotion, and entered them at last with calmness and con- 
fidence ; after which, they were seen only by the eye of Religion ; 
and though Reason looked after them with the most earnest curiosi- 
ty, she could only obtain a faint glimpse, when her mistress, to en-- 
iarge her prospect, raised her from the ground. Reason, however, 
discerned that they were safe, but Religion saw that they were 
happy. 

" Now, Theodore," said my protector, " withdraw thy view from 
the regions of obscuritj r , and see the fate of those who, when they 
were dismissed by Education, would admit no direction but that of 
Reason. Survey their wanderings, and be wise." 

I looked then upon the road of Reason, which was indeed, so far 
as it reached, the same as that of Religion, nor had Reason disco- 
vered it but by her instruction. Yet when she had once been taught 
it, she clearly saw that it was right ; and Pride had sometimes incited 
her to declare that she discovered it herself, and persuaded her to 
•ffer herself as a guide to Religion, whom after many vain experi- 
ments she found it her highest privilege to follow. Reason was how* 
«ver at last well instructed in part of the way, and appeared to teach 
it with some success, when her precepts were not misrepresented 



Sequel to the English Reader* Part I 

by Passion, or her influence overborne by Appetite. But neither <* 
these enemies was she able to resist. When Passion seized upon 
her votaries, she seldom attempted opposition. She seemed indeed 
to contend with more vigour against Appetite, but was generally 
overwearied in the contest ; and if either of her opponents had con- 
federated with Habit, her authority was wholly at an end. When 
Habit endeavoured to captivate the votaries of Religion, she grew 
by slow degrees, and gave time to escape ; but in seizing the un- 
happy followers of Reason, she proceeded as one that had nothing ta 
fear, and enlarged her size, and doubled her chains without inter, 
mission, and without reserve. 

Of those who forsook the directions of Reason, some were led 
aside by the whispers of Ambition, who was perpetually pointing to 
stately palaces, situated on eminences on either side, recounting the 
delights of affluence, and boasting the security of power. They 
were easily persuaded to follow her, and Habit quickly threw her 
chains upon them ; they were soon convinced of the folly of their 
choice, but few of them attempted to return. Ambition led them 
forward from precipice to precipice, where many fell and were seen 
no more. Those that escaped were, after a long series of hazards, 
generally delivered over to Avarice, and enlisted by her in the ser- 
vice of Tyranny, where they continued to heap up gold, till theii 
patrons or their heirs pushed them headlong at last into the caverns 
of Despair. 

Others were enticed by intemperance to ramble in search of those 
fruits that hung over the rocks, and filled the air with their fra. 
grance. I observed that the Habits which hovered about these 
soon grew to an enormous size, nor were there any who less at- 
tempted to return to Reason, or sooner sunk into the gulfs that lay 
before them. When these first quitted the road, Reason looked af- 
ter them with a frown of contempt, but had little expectation of being 
able to reclaim them ; for the bowl of intoxication was of such quali- 
ties as to make them lose all regard but for the present moment. — 
Neither Hope nor Fear could enter the retreats ; and Habit had so 
aosolute a power, that even Conscience, if Religion had employed 
her in their favour, would not have been able to force an entrance. 

There were others whose crime it was rather to neglect Reason 
than to disobey her ; and who retreated from the heat and tumult of 
the way, not to the bowers of Intemperance, but to the maze of in- 
dolence. They had this peculiarity in their condition, that they 
were always in sight of the road of reason, always wishing for her 
presence, and always resolving to return to-morrow. In these, wa* 
most eminently conspicuous the subtlety of Habit, who hung imper. 
ceptible shackles upon them, and was every moment leading them 
farther from the road, which they always imagined that they had the 
power of reaching. They wandered on, from one double of the la-* 
byrinth to another, with the chains of Habit hanging secretly upo» 
them, till, as they advanced, the flowers grew paler, and the scents 
fainter : they proceeded in their dreary march without pleasure \w 
their progress, yet without power to return ; and had this aggTay* 



Chap. 8 Promiscwui Pieces i$7 

tioa above ail others, that they were criminal but not delighted.— 
The drunkard fox a time laughed over his wine ; the ambitious man 
triumphed in the miscarriage of his rival ; but the captives of Indo- 
lence had neither superiority nor merriment. Discontent lowered in 
their looks, and Sadness hovered round their shades ; yet they crawl- 
ed on reluctant and gloomy, till they arrived at the depth of the re. 
cess, varied onfy with poppies and nightshade, where the dominion 
of Indolence terminates, and the hopeless wanderer is delivered up 
to Melancholy ; the chains of Habit are rivetted forever ; and Me- 
lancholy, having tortured her prisoner for a time, consigns him at 
last to the cruelty of Despair. 

While I was musing on this miserable scene, my protector called 
out to me, " Remember, Theodore, and be wise, and let not Habit 
prevail against thee." I started, and beheld myself surrounded by 
the rocks of Teneriffe ; the birds of light were singing in the trees, 
and toe fences of the morning darted upon me. 

DR. JOHNSON. 



TART XI. 

PIECES IJY POETRY. 



CHAPTER I. 
NARRATIVE PIECES. 



SECTION I. 

The chameleon ; or 'pertinacity exposed, 

OFT hast it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark, 
With eyes that hardly serv'd at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post ; 
Yet round the world the blade has been. 
To see whatever could be seen : 
Returning from his finish'd tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before ; 
Whatever word you chance to drop, 
The traveled fool your mouth will stop : 
** But, if my judgment you'll allow — 
IVe seen — and sure I ought to know" — 
So begs you 1 d pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast, 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, 
And on their way, in friendly chat, 
Now talk'd of this, and then of that, 
Discours'd a while, 'mongst other matter 
Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
" A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never liv'd beneath the sun .' 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, 
Its foot with triple claw disjoin'd ; 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace I and then its hue— 
Who ever saw so fine a blue ? w 

" Hold there," the other quick replies, 
" Tis green — I saw it with these eye*, 
As late with open mouth it lay, 
And warm'd it in the sunny ray ; 
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I rieirM, 
And saw it eat the air for food." 



Zhap. I. Narrative Pieces. 

** I've seen it friend, as well as you, 
And must again affirm it blue. 
At leisure I the beast survey'd. 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

" 'Tis green, 'tis green, I can assure ye. n 
" Green !" cries the other in a fury — 
" Why, do you think IVe lost my eyes ?" 
" Twere no great loss," the friend replies, 
" For if they always serve you thus, 
Yju'11 find them but of little use." 

So high at last the contest rose, 
From words they almost came to blows : 
When luckily came by a third — 
To him the question they referred ; 
And begg'd he'd tell 'em, if he knew, 
Whether. the thing was green or blue. 

" Come," cries the umpire, " cease your pother, 
The creature's neither one nor t'other. 

I caught the animal last night, 
And view'd it o'er by candle light : 
[ mark'd it well — 'twas black as jet — 
You stare — but I have got it yet, 
And can produce it." " Pray then do : 
For I am sure the thing is biue." 
" And I'll engage that when you've seen 
The reptile, you'll pronounce him green. n 

" Well then, at once to ease the doubt," 
Replies the man, " I'll turn him out : 
And when before your eyes I've set him^. 
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." 

He said ; then full before their sight 
Produc'd the beast, and lo— 'twas white ! 
Both star'd : the man look'd wondrous wise — 
" My children, the chameleon cries, 
(Then first the creature found a tongue,) 
" You all are right, and all are wrong : 
When next you talk of what you view, 
Think others see as well as you : 
Nor wonder if you find that none 
Prefers your eye-sight to his own." merrick. 

SECTION II. 

The hare and many friend*. 

Friendship, in truth, is but a name, 
Unless to few we stint the flame. 
The child, who many fathers share, 
Hath seldom known a father's care. 
Tis thus in friendship; who depend 
On many, rarely find a friend 



j30 Sequel to the English Reader. Pmrtt 

A hare, who, in a civil way, 
Complied with every thing-, like Gay, 
Was known by all the bestial train, 
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. 
Her care was never to offend ; 
And ev'ry creature was her friend. 

As forth she went at early dawn, 
To taste the dew-bespnnkled lawn, 
Behind she hears the hunter's cries, 
And from deep-mouthed thunder flies. 
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; 
She hears the near advance of death ; 
She doubles to mislead the hound, 
And measures back her mazy round ; 
Till, fainting in the public way, 
Half-dead with fear she gasping lay. 

What transport in her bosom grew, 
When first the horse appear'd in view ! 
" Let me," says she, " your back ascend, 
And owe my safety to a friend. 
You know my feet betray my flight ; 
To friendship ev'ry burthen's light." 

The horse replied, " Poor honest puss ! 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus : 
Be comforted, relief is near ; 
For all your friends are in the rear." 

She next the stately bull implor'd ; 
And thus replied the mighty lord ; 
" Since ev'ry beast alive can tell 
That I sincerely wish you well, 
I may, without offence, pretend 
To take the freedom of a friend. — 
To leave you thus might seem unkind ; 
But see, the goat is just behind." 

The goat remark'd her pulse was high, 
Her languid head, her heavy eye ; 
" My back," says he, " may do you harm 
The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 

The sheep was feeble, and complain'd 
His sides a load of wool sustain'd : 
Said he was slow, confess'd his fears ; 
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. 

She now the trotting calf address'd, 
To save from death a friend distressed. 
" Shall I," says he, " of tender age, 
In this important care engage ? 
Older and abler pass'd you by : 
How strong are those ! how weak am 1 1 
Should I presume to bear you hence, 
Those friends of mine might take offence. 



CJup ' Narrative Piece*. »Sl 

Excuse me then. You know my heart, 

But dearest friends, alas ! must part. 

How shall we all lament ! — Adieu ! 

For, see, the hounds are just in view." OAr. 

SECTION III. 

The three warnings. 
The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground : 
Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 

Th?.t love of life increas'd with years 
So much, that in our latter stages, 
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, 

The greatest love of life appears. 
This great affection to believe, 
Which all confess, but few perceive, 
If old assertions can't prevail, 
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were gay, 
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, 
Death calTd aside the jocund groom 
With him into another room ; 
And looking grave — " You must," says he, 
** Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.* 
" With you ! and quit my Susan's side ! 
With you !" the hapless husband cried ; 
" Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard ! 
Beside, in truth, I'm not prepared : 
My thoughts on other matters go ; 
This is my wedding-day you know." 

What more he urg'd, I nave not heard, 
His reasons could not well be stronger. 

So death the poor delinquent spar'd, 
And left to live a little longer. 
Yet calling up a serious look, 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke — 
" Neighbour," he said, " Farewell. No mora 
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour ; 
And farther, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 
To give you time for preparation, 
And fit you for your future station, 
Three several Warnings you shall have, 
1 Before you're summon'd to the grave. 

Willing for once I'll quit my prey, 

And grant a kind reprieve ; 
In hopes you'll have no more to say *, 
But, when I call again this way, 

Well pleas'd the world will leave." 



133 Sequel to the English Reader Part \ 

To these conditions both consented, 
And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befall, 
How long" he liv'd, how wise, how well, 
How roundly he pursu'd his course, 
And smok'd his pipe, and stroked his horse, 

The willing- muse shall tell : 
He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold, 
Nor once perceiv'd his growing- old, 

Nor thought of Death as near ; 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, bis children few, 

He pass'd his hours in peace. 
But while he view'd his wealth increase, 
While thus along Life*'s du ity road 
The beaten track content he trod, 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares. 
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares, 

Brought on his eightieth year. 
And now, one night, in musing mood 

As all alone he sat, 
Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate 

Once more before him stood. 
Half kill'd with anger and surprise, 
*' So soon return'd !" old Dodson cries. 

" So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies : 
" Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ! 

Since I was here before 
Tis six-and-thirty years at least, 

And you now are fourscore." 

" So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd, 
" To spare the aged would be kind : 
However, see your search be legal ; 
And your authority — is't regal ? 
Else you are come on a fool's errand, 
With but a secretary's warrant. 
Beside, you promis'd me Three Warnings, 
Which I have look'd for nights and mornings ! 
But for that loss of time and ease, 
I can recover damages." 

" I know," cries Death, " that, at the best,, } 
I seldom am a welcome guest ; > 

But don't be captious, friend, at least : J 

I little thought you'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable ; 
Your years have run to a great length ; 
I wish you joy, though, of your strength J" 

" Hold," says the farmer, " not so fast ! 
I hare been lame these four years past" 



f\ap I. Narrative Pieces. 10$ 

" And no great wonder," Death replies : 
* However, you still keep your eyes ; 
And sure, to see one's loves and friends, 
Tor legs and arms would make amends.*' 

" Perhaps," says Dodson, " so it might. 
But latterly IVe lost my sight." 

" This is a shocking tale, 'tis true, 
But still there's comfort left for you : 
Each strives your sadness to amuse, 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

" There's none," cries he ; " and if there were, 
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 
" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd, 

" These are unjustifiable yearnings ; 
" If you are Lame, and Deaf and Blind, 

You've had your Three sufficient Warnings. 
So, come along, no mv>re we'll part ; 
He said, and touch'd him with his dart 
And now, old Dodson turning pale, 
Yields to his fate — so ends my tale tubals. 

SECTION IV, 
The Hermit. 

Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
from youth to age a rev'rend hermit grew ; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell. 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well , 
Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days, 
Pray'r all his business, all his pleasure praise. 
A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seem'd heav'n itself, till one suggestion rose- 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenour of his soul is lost 
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
Calm nature's image on it's wat'ry breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending gT©** 
And skies beneath with answering colours glow 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry side, 
And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun ; 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run 

To clear this doubt, to know the world by ligfet, 
To find if books or swains report it right, 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Who^e feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew,} 
He quits his cell ; the piJgrim-staff he bore, 
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ; 
M 



t S4 Sequel to the English Reader* Pari % 

Then with the sun a rising journey went, 

Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 

And long and lonesome was the wild to pass. 

But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 

A youth came posting o'er a crossing way : 

His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 

And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair : 

Then near approaching, " Father, hail I* he cried, 

And " Hail, my son !" the rev'rend sire replied. 

Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, 

And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road : 

Till each with other pleas'd, and loath to part, 

While in their age they differ, join in heart. 

Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 

Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 
Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 

Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 

Nature in silence bid the world repose : 

When near the road a stately palace rose. 

There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pasi, 

Whose verdure crown'd the sloping sides of grass. 

It chanc'd the noble master of the dome 

Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home; 
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive . the liv'ried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
And shake the neigh b'ring wood to banish sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call: 
An early banquet deckM the splendid hall ; 
Rich lusciour, wine a golden goblet grae'd, 
Which the kind master fore'd the guests to taste, 
Th^n, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go t 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of wo ; 
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise 
The younger guest puildin'd the glittering prize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
Ghst'ning and basking in the summer ray, 
Disorder'd stops, io shun the danger near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear , 
So seem'dthe sire, when far upon the road 
The shining spoil his wilv oartner show'd. 



%Jhap. .. Narrative Pieces, 13% 

He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart) 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask, to part : 
Murm'ring, he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard 
That gen'rous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, 
The changing- skies hang out their sable clouds ; 
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain, 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warn'd by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat, 
To seek for shelter at a neighb'ring seat. 
Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, 
And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around ; 
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, 
Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there. 
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning mix'd with show'rs began, 
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. 
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, 
Driv'n by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. 
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast ; 
('Twas then his threshold first reeeiv'd a guest:) 
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes in the shiv'nng pair. 
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 
And nature's fervour through their limbs recall* 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine, 
(Each hardly granted,) serr'd them both to dine ; 
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease ; 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remark the pond'ring hermit view'd. 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 
And why should such (within himself he cried) 
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? 
But what new marks of wonder soon take place, 
In ev'ry settling feature of his face, 
When from his vest the young companion bore 
That cup the gen'rous landlord own'd before, 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
The sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smelling leaves display, 
And, glittVing as they tremble, cheer the day : 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrougirt 
With all the travail of uncertain thought • 
His partner's acts without tSieir cause appear, 
Twas there a vice ; and seem'd a madness beret 



IW Sequel to the English Reader. P«ri 1 

Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows 

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky ; } 
Again the wand'rers want a place to lie . > 

Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. ) 

The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great, 
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not for praise but virtue kind. 

Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 

" Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
To him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
From him you come, for him accept it here, 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer. M 
He spoke and bid the welcome table spread, 
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed : 
When the grave household round his hall repair, 
Warned by a bell, and close the hours with pray'r. 

At length the world, renewed by calm repose, 
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the clos'd cradle, where an infant slept, 
And writh'd his i*eck : the landlord's little pride, 
O strange return ! grew black, and ga^p'd, and died. 
Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done*! 
Not hell, tho' hell's black jaws in sunder part, 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart 

Confus'd and struck with silence at the deed, 
He flies ; but, trembling, fails to fly with speed. 
His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay 
Perplex'd with roads ; a servant show'd the way : 
A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before : 
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, 
And deep the waves beneath the bending branches gbd» 
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, 
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in 
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head : 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 

Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes ; 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries ; 
" Detested wretch !" — But scarce his speech begaa 
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man. 
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet ; 



Wtop. 1. Narrative Pieces. IS* 

Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air* 
And wings whose colours glitter'd on the day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, 
Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends, 
And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke ; 
The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke. 

" Thy pray'r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne ; 
These charms success in our bright region find, 
And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; 
For this commission'd, I forsook the sky — 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 
Then know the truth of government Divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine, 
The Maker justly claims that world he made: 
In this the right of Providence is laid. 
Tts sacred majesty through all depends 
On using second means to work his ends. 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
The Pow'r exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your action uses, nor controls your will ; 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
What strange events can strike with more surprise, 
Than those which lately struck thy wond'ring eyes ? 
Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just ; 
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust 

" The great vain man, who far'd on costly food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his iv'ry stands with goblets shine, 
And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine; 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

" The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
Ne'er mov'd in pity to the wand'ring poor, 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heav'n can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl» 
And feels compassion touch his grateful souL 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head : 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod ; 
But now the child half wean'd his heart from God : 
M 2 



SS Sequei to the English Reader. Part t 

Child of his age, for him he hVd in pain 
And measured bacK his steps to earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ! 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 
To all but thee in fits he seem'd to go ; 
And twas my ministry to deal the blow. 
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
Now owns in tears the punishment was just 
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack ! 
Had that false servant sped in safety back ! 
This night his treasur'd heaps, he meant to steal, 
And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
Thus Heav'n instructs thy mind ; this trial o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 

On bounding pinions here the youth withdrew ; 
The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
The fiery pomp ascending left the view ; 
The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too. 
The bending hermit here a prayV begun : 
Lord ! as in heav'n, on earth thy will be done. 
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place ; 
And -passM a life of piety and peace. parcel* 



CHAPTER II. 
DIDACTIC PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Hie love of the world detected. 

Thus says the prophet of the Turk ; 
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork : 
There is a part in ev'ry swine 
No friend or follower of mine 
May taste, whatever his inclination, 
On pain of excommunication. 
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, 
And thus he left the point at large. 
Had he the sinful part express'd, 
They might with safety eat the rest : 
But for one piece they thought it hard 
From the whole hog to be debarred ; 
And set their wit at work to find 
What joint the prophet had in mind. 
Much controversy straight arose , 
These choose the back, the beUv thoa* 



Otap. 2. Didactic Piece*. \H 

By some, 'tis confidently said 

He meant not to forbid the head ; 

While others at that doctrine rail, 

And piously prefer the tail. 

Thus, conscience freed from ev'ry clog, 

Mahometans eat up the hog-. 

You laugh — 'tis well — the tale applied 
May make you laugh on t'other side. 
'* Renounce the world," the preacher cries; 
<* We do," a multitude replies. 
While one as innocent regards 
A snug and friendly game at cards t 
And one, whatever you may say, 
Can see no evil in a play ; 
Some love a concert, or a race, 
And others, shooting and the chace. 
Revil'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow'd, 
Thus bit by bit the world is swallow'd ; 
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, 
Fet likes a slice as well as he : 
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, 
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. cowpe* 

SECTION II. 

On Friendship. 

What virtue, or what mental grace, 
But men, unqualified and base, 

Will boast it their profession ? 
Profusion apes the noble part 
Of liberality of heart, 

And dulness, of discretion. 
If evVy polish'd gem we find, 
Illuminating heart or mind, 

Provoke to imitation ; 
No wonder Friendship does the same, 
That jewel of the purest flame, 

Or rather constellation 
No knave but boldly will pretend 
The requisites that form a friend, 

A real and a sound one ; 
Nor any fool he would deceive, 
But prove as ready to believe, 

And dream that he has found one. 
Candid, and generous, and just, 
Boys care but little whom they trust. 

An e^ror soon corrected — 
For who but learns in riper yean, 
That man, when smoothest he appears, 

I» woRt to be suspected ? 



140 Sequel to the English Render. Part t 

But here again a danger lies. 
Lest having misemployed our eyes, 

And taken trash for treasure. 
We should unwarily conclude 
Friendship a false ideal good, 

A mere Utopian pleasure. 
An acquisition rather rare, 
Is yet no subject of despair ; 

Nor is it wise complaining, 
If either on forbidden ground, 
Or where it was not to be found, 

We sought without attaining. 
No friendship will abide the test 
That stands on sordid interest, 

Or mean self-love erected ; 
Nor such as may awhile subsist 
Between the sot and sensualist, 

For vicious ends connected. 
Who seeks a friend, should come disport}, 
T' exhibit, in full bloom disclosed, 

The graces and the beauties, 
That form the character he seek.3, 
For 'tis an union that bespeaks 

Reciprocated duties. 
Mutual attention is implied, 
An equal truth on either side, 

And constantly supported ; 
Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse 
Another of sinister views, 

Our own as much distorted. 
But will sincerity suffice ? 
It is indeed above all price, 

And must be made the basi8 ; 
But ev'ry virtue of the soul 
Must constitute the charmmg whole, 

All shining in their places. 
A fretful temper will divide 
The closest knot that may be tied ; 

By careless sharp corrosion, 
A temper passionate and fierce, 
May suddenly your joys disperse, 

At one immense explosion. 
In vain the talkative unite 
In hopes of permanent deligb*— 

The secret just committed, 
Forgetting its important weight, 
They drop through mere desire to prate, 

And by themselves outwitted. 
How bright soe'er the prospect seems, 
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams, 



fftqp. *. Didactic Piece*. 

If envy chance to creep in : 
An envious man, if you succeed, 
May prove a dang'rous foe indeed, 

But not a friend worth keeping. 
As Envy pines at Good possess'd, 
„ So Jealousy looks forth distress'd, 

On Good that seems approaching ; 
And if success his steps attend, 
Discerns a rival in a friend, 

And hates him for encroaching. 
Hence authors of illustrious name, 
Unless belied by common fame, 

Are sadly prone to quarrel ; 
To deem the wit a friend displays 
A tax upon their own just praise, 

And pluck each others laurel. 
A man renown'd for repartee, 
Will seldom scruple to make free 

With friendship's finest feeling ; 
Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 
And say he wounded you in jest, 

By way of balm for healing. 
Whoever keeps an open ear 
For tattlers, will be sure to hear 

The trumpet of contention ; 
Aspersion is the babbler's trade, 
To listen is to lend him aid, 

And rush into dissension. 
A friendship that in frequent fits 
Of controversial rage emits 

The sparks of disputation, 
Like hand in hand insurance plates, 
Most unavoidably creates 

The thought of conflagration. 
Some fickle creatures boast a soul 
True as the needle to the pole, 

Their humour yet so variouv— 
They manifest, their whole life through, 
The needle's deviation too, 

Their love is so precarious. 
The great and small but rarely meet 
On terms of amity complete ; 

Plebeians must surrender, 
And yield so much to noble folk. 
It is combining fire with smoke, 

Obscurity with splendour. 
Some are so placid and serene, 
(As Irish bogs are always green) 

They sleep secure from waking ; 



4t Sequei to the English, Reader. P<urt % 

And are indeed a bog- that bears 
Your unparticipated cares, 

Unmov'd and without quaking 
Courtier and patriot cannot mix 
Their het'rogeneous politics, 

Without an effervescence, 
Like that of salts with lemon juice, 
Which does not jet like that produce 

A friendly coalescence. 
Religion should extinguish strife, 
And make a calm of human life ; 

But friends that : chance to differ 
On points which God has left at large, 
How fiercely will they meet and charge 

No combatants are stiffer ! 
To prove at last my main intent, 
Needs no expense of argument, 

No cutting and contriving — 
Seeking a real friend, we seem 
T' adopt the chymist's golden dream, 

With still less hope of thriving. 
Sometimes the fault is all our own, 
Some blemish in due time made know^ 

By trespass or omission ; 
Sometimes occasion brings to light 
Our friend's defect long hid from sight, 

And even from suspicion. 
Then judge yourself, and prove your man 
As circumspectly as you can ; 

And having made election, 
Beware no negligence of yours, 
Such as a friend but ill endures, 

Enfeeble his affection. 
That secrets are a sacred trust, 
That friends should be sincere and just, 

That c instancy befits them, 
Are observations en the case, 
That savour much of common place, 

And all the world admits them. 
But 'tis not timber, lead and stone, 
An architect requires alone, 

To finish a fine building — 
The palace were but half complete 
If he could possibly forget 

The carving and the gilding. 
The man that hails you, Tom or Jack, 
And proves, by thumps upon your back, 

How be esteems your merit. 



OUp. 9. Didactic Pieces. 143 

Is such a friend, that one had need 
Be very much his friend indeed, 

To pardon or to bear it. 
As similarity of mind, 
Or something not to be defin'd, 

First fixes our attention ; 
So, manners decent and polite, 
The same we practis'd at first sight, 

Must save it from declension. 
Some act upon this prudent plan, 
M Say little, and hear all you can ; w 

Safe policy, but hateful — 
So barren sands imbibe the show'r, 
But render neither fruit nor flow'r, 
* Unpleasant and ungrateful. 
The man I trust, if shy to me, 
Shall find me as reserved as he, 

No subterfuge or pleading 
Shall win my confidence again ; 
I will by no means entertain 

A spy on my proceeding. 
These samples — for alas : at last 
These are but samples and a taste 

Of evils yet unmention'd — 
May prove the task a task indeed, 
In which 'tis much if we succeed, 

However well intention'd. 
Pursue the search, and you will find, 
Good sense and knowledge of mankind 

To be at least expedient ; 
And after summing all the rest, 
Keligion ruling in the breast, 

A principal ingredient. 
The noblest friendship ever shown, 
The Saviour's history makes known, 

Though some have turn'd and turn'd it 
And whether being craz'd or blind, 
Or seeking with a bias'd mind, 

Have not, it seems, discern'd it 
Oh Friendship ! if my soul forego 
Thy dear delights while here below ; 

To mortify and grieve me, 
May I myself at last appear 
Unworthy, base, and insincere, 

Or may my friend deceive me ! cfovrPER. 



144 Sequel to the English Reader Pmri % 

SECTION III 

Improvement of time recommended. 

He mourns the dead, who lives as they desire. 

Where is that thrift, that avarice of Time, 

(Blest av'rice !) which the thought of death inspires t 

O time ! than gold more sacred ; more a load 

Than lead, to fools ; and fools reputed wise. 

What moment granted man without account ? 

What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid 1 

Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door, 

Insidious Death ; should his strong hand arrest, 

No composition sets the prisoner free. 

Eternity's inexorable chain 

Fast binds ; and vengeance claims the full arrear. 
How late I shudder'd on the brink ! how late 

Life call'd for her last refuge in despair ! 

For what calls thy disease ? for moral aid. 

Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon. 

Youth is not rich in time ; it may be, poor. 

Part with it as with money, sparing ; pay 

No moment, but in purchase of its worth : 

And what its worth, ask death-beds , they can tell 

Pa 't with it as with life, reluctant ; big 

W .th holy hope of nobler time to come. 
Is this our duty, wir,dom, glory, gain ? 

And sport we, like the natives of the bough, 

When vernal suns inspire ? Amusement reigns, 

Man's great demand : to trifle is to live : 

And is it then a trifle, too, to die? 

Who wants amusement in the flame of battle ? 

Is it not treason to the soul immortal, 

Her foes in aims, eternity the prize ? 

Will toys amuse, when med'cincs cannot cure f 

When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting scenes 

Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight ; 

(As lands, and cities with their glitt'ring spires 

To the poor shatter'd bark, by sudden storm 

Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there ;) 

Will toys amuse ? — No : thrones will then be toys, 

And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale- 
Redeem we time ? — its loss we dearly buy. 

What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd s-ports ? 

He pleads time's num'rous blanks ; he loudly pleads 

The straw-like trifles on life's common stream. 

From whom those blanks and trifles, but from thee ■ 

No blank, no trifle, nature made or meant. 

Virtue, or purpos'd virtue, still be thine « 

This cancels thy complaint at once ; this leaves 



$hap. 5L Didactic Pieces Sift 

In act no trifle, and no blank in time. 

This gTeatens, ills, immortalizes all : 

This, the blest art of turning- all to gold 

This, the good heart's prerogative to raise 

A royal tribute, from the poorest hours. 

Immense revc nue ! every moment pays. 

If nothing more than purpose in thy pow'r, 

Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed : 

Who does the best his circumstance allows, 

Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more. 

Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint ; 

'Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer ; 

Guard well thy thoughts ; our thoughts are heard in heave*. 

On all-important time, through ev'ry age, 

Though much, and warm, the wise have urg'd ; the man 

Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour. 

H IVe lost a day" — the prince who nobly cried, 

Had been an emperor without his crown. 

He spoke, as if deputed by mankind. 

So should all speak : so reason speaks in all. 

From the soft whispers of that God in man, 

Why fly to folly, why to phrenzy fly, 

For rescue from the blessing we possess ? 

Time, the supreme ! — Time is eternity ; 

Pregnant with all eternity can give, 

Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile : 

Who murders time, he crushes in the birth 

A pow'r ethereal, only not ador'd. young. 

CHAPTER III. 
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

The Spring. 
IjO ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 

Fair Venus' train, appear ; 
Disclose the long-expected flow'rs, 

And wake the purple year ! 
The Attic warbler pours her throat, 
Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 

The untaught harmony of Spring* , 
Whi/e whisp'ring pleasure as they fly, 
Cool zephyrs through the cleor blue sky 

Their gather'd fragance fling. 
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader, browner shade ; 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 
O'er-canopies the glade ; 
N 



148 Sequel to the English Reader. JP#r* t. 

Beside some water's rushy brink, 
With me the Muse shall sit and think 
(At ease reclin'd in rustic state) 
How vain the ardour of the crowd, 
How low, how little are the proud, 

How indigent the great I 
Still is the toiling hand of care ; 

The panting herds repose ; 
Yet hark, how through the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows ! 
The insect youth are on the wing, 
Eager to taste the honey'd spring, 

And float amid the liquid noon : 
Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
Some show their gaily-gilded trim 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 
To contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the race of man ; 
And they that creep, and they that fly, 

Shall end where they began. 
Alike the busy and the gay 
But flutter through life's little day, 

In fortune's varying colours drest ; 
Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance, 
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance 
, They leave in dust to rest. — t-grai. 

SECTION II. 

Description of winter at Copenhagen. 

From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, 
From streams that northern winds forbid to flow, 
What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, 
Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing ? 
The hoary winter here conceals from sight 
AU pleasing objects that to verse invite. 
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, 
The flow'ry plains, and silver-streaming floods, 
By snow disgiris'd, in bright confusion lie, 
AJnd with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. 

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring , 
No birds within the desert region sing. 
The ships, unmov'd, the boist'roua winds defy, 
While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. 
The vast leviathan wants room to play, 
And spout his waters in the face of day. 
The starving wolves along the main sea prewi, 
And to the Moon in icy valleys howl. 
For many a shining league the level main, 
Here spreads itself isto a glassy plain t 



Chap. 2. Descriptive Piece*. 141 

There solid billows, of enormous size, 

Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. 

And yet but lately have I seen, e'en here, 

The winter in a lovely dress appear. 

Ere yet the clouds 'let fall the treasur'd snow, 

Or winds began through hazy skies to blow, 

At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose ; 

And the descending rain unsullied froze. 

Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, 

The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view 

The face of nature in a rich disguise, 

And brighten'd ev'ry object to my eyes : 

For ev'ry shrub, and ev'ry blade of grass, 

And evVy pointed thorn seem'd wrought In glasa. 

In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorn show, 

While through the ice the crimson berries glow. 

The thick-sprung reeds the watVy marshes yield 

Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field. 

The Stag, in limpid currents, with surprise 

Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise. 

The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine, 

GlazM over, in the freezing ether shine. 

The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, 

That wave and glitter in the distant sun. 

When, if a sudden gust of wind arise, 

The brittle forest into atoms flies ; 

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, 

And in a spangled show'r the prospect ends : 

Or if a southern gale the region warm, 

And by degrees unbind the wintry charm, 

The traveller a miry country sees, 

And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees. 

Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads 
Through fragant bow'rs, and through delicious meads;. 
While here enchanting gardens to him rise, 
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, 
His wand'ring feet the magic path pursue ; 
And, while he thinks the fair allusion true, 
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, 
And woods, and wilds, and thorny waves appear : 
A tedious road the weary wretch returns, 
And, as be goes, the transient vision mourns.— — fehluf*. 

SECTION III. 

Night Described. 

Now came still ev'ning on, and twilight gray 
Had, in her sober liv'ry all things clad. 
Sileuce accompanied ; for beasts and birds, 
Those to their grassy couch, these to their cests 



149 Sequel to the English Reader Part\ 

•Vere sluuk ; all but the wakeful nightingale . 

She all night long her plaintive descant sung. 

Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament 

With living sapphires. Hesperus, that led 

The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, 

Rising ki clouded majesty, at length, 

Apparent queen, unveiPd her peerless light ; 

And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.— — miltok. 

Night, sable powei ! from her ebon throne, 

In rayless majesty, now stretches forth 

Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world. 

Silence, how dead, and darkness how profound ! 

Nor eye, nor list'ning ear, an object finds : 

Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the genVal pulse 

Of life stood still, and nature made a pause, 

An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. young. 



SECTION IV. 

Grongar Hill. 

Silent Nymph ! with curious eye, 

Who, the purple eve, dost lie 

On the mountain's lonely van, 

Beyond the noise of busy man, 

Painting fair the form of things 

While the yellow linnet sings ; 

Or the tuneful nightingale 

Charms the forest with her tale ; 

Come, with all thy various hues, 

Come, and aid thy sister Muse. 

Now, while Phoebus riding high, 

Gives lustre to the land and sky, 

Grongar hill invites my song, 

Draw the landscape bright and strong ; 

Grongar ! in whose mossy cells, 

Sweetly musing quiet dwells ; 

Grongar ! in whose silent shade, 

For the modest Muses made, 

So oft I have, the ev'mng still, 

At the fountain of a rill, 

Sat upon a flow'ry bed, 

With my hand beneath my head, 

While stray'd my eyes o T er Towy's flood, 

Over mead and over wood, 

From house to house, from hill to hill, 

Till Contemplation had her fill. 

About his chequer'd sides I wind, 
And leave his brooks and meads behind; 






Chop *. Descriptive Pieces. t<\t 

And groves and grottos, where I lay, 
And vistas shooting beams of day. 
Wide and wider spreads the vale, 
As circles on a smooth canal ; 
The mountains round, unhappy fate, 
Sooner or later, of all height ! 
Withdraw their summits from the skies, 
And lessen as the others rise. 
Still the prospect wider spreads, 
Adds a thousand woods and meads ; 
Still it widens, widens still, 
And sinks the newly-risen hill. 

Now I gain the mountain's brow ; 
What, a landscape lies below ! 
No clouds, no vapours intervene ; 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of nature show 
In all the hues of heaven's bow ; 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Spreads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise, 
Proudly tow'ring in the skies ; 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires : 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads, 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
And glitters on the broken rocks. 

Below me trees unnumber'd rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
The yellow beech, the sable yewl 
The slender fir that taper grows, 
The sturdy oak with broad spread boughs ; 
And, beyond the purple grove, 
Haunt of virtue, peace, and love ! 
Gaudy as the op'ning dawn, 
Lies a long and level lawn, 
On which a dark hill, steep and hip;h, 
Holds and charms the wand'rin**" eye. 
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood ; 
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood; 
And ancient towers crown his brow, 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, 
And with her arms from falling keeps ; 
So both a safety from the wind, 
In mutual dependence, find. 

♦Tis now the raven's bleak ^bode f 



;! 



t$© Sequel to the English Reader, Part ft 

And there the fox securely feeds, 
And there the pois'nou* adder breeds, 
Conceal'd in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
While, ever and anon, there falls 
A heap of hoary mould er'd walls. 
Yet time has seen, that lifts the low, 
And level lays the loftj brow, 
Has seen this broken pile complete, 
Big" with the vanity of state : 
But transient is the smile of fate ! 
A little rule, a little sway, 
A sun-beam in a wintei *s day, 
Is all the proud and mighty have, 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers, how they run 
Through woods and meads, in shades and son 1 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep, 
Like human life to final sleep. 
Thus is nature's vesture wrought, 
To instruct our wand'ring thought ; 
Thus she dresses green and gay ; 
To disperse our cares away. 

Ever charming, ever new, 
When will the landscape tire the view 8 
The fountain's fall, the river's flow, 
The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
The windy summit, wild and high, 
Roughly rushing on the sky ; 
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tow'r, 
The naked rock, the shady bow'r ; 
The town and village, dome and farm, 
Each gives each a double charm, 
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 

See on the mountain's southern side, 
Where the prospect opens wide, 
Where the evening gilds the tide, 
How close and small the hedges lie ; 
What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! 
A step methinks, may pass the stream ; 
So little distant dangers seem : 
So we mistake the future's face, 
Ey'd through hope's deluding glass, 
•^ yon summits soft and fair, 
Clat i n colours of the air, 
Which to those who journey near, 
Barren, t*. wn, and rough appear : 
- Jjjfl* we treal the same coarse way ; 
The present's &till a cloudy day. 



Cha» 3 Descriptive Pieces if* 

O may I with myself agree, 
And never covet what I see ! 
Content me with a humble shade, 
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid ; 
For while our wishes widely roll, 
We banish quiet from the soul : 
'Tis thus the busy beat the air, 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high, 
As on the mountain turf I lie ; 
While the wanton Zephyr sings, 
And in the vale perfumes his wings : 
While the waters murmur deep ; 
While the shepherd charms his sheep ; 
While the oirds unbounded fly, } 

And with mu^ic fill the sky ; > 

Now, ev'n now, my joys run high, } 

Be full, ye courts ! be great who will ; 
Search for peace with all your skill ; 
Open wide the lofty door, 
Seek her on the marble floor : 
In vain ye search, she is not there ; 
In vain ye search the domes of care ! 
Grass and flow'rs quiet treads, 
On the meads and mountain-heads, 
Along with pleasure close allied, 
Ever by each other's side ; 
And often, by the murm'ring rill, 
Hears the thrush, while all is still 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill, ) dyeb. 



U 



SECTION V. 

Description of a parish poor-house. 

Behold yon house that holds the parish poor, 
Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door! 
There, where the putrid vapours flagging play, 
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day ; 
There children dwell who know no parents' care ; 
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there ; 
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, 
Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed ; 
Dejected widows with unheeded tears, 
And crippled age with more than childhood fears ; 
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they I 
The moping idiot, and the madman gay. 

Here too the sick their final doom receive, 
Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve : 
Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, 
MixM with the clamours of the crowd below ; 



161. Sequel to the English Reader Px**& 

Here sorrowing they each kindred sorrow scan, 

And the cold charities of man to man : 

Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, 

And strong- compulsion plucks the scrap from pridef 

But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, 

And pride embitters what it can't deny. 

Say, ye oppress'd by some fantastic woes, 
Some jarring nerve that baffles 3'our repose ; 
Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance 
With timid eye, to read the distant glance ; 
Who with sad pray'rs the weary doctor tease 
To name the nameless ever-new disease ; 
Who with mock-patience dire complaints endure, 
Which real pain, and that alone, can cure ; 
How would you bear in real pain to lie, 
Despis'd, neglected, left alone to die ? 
How would you bear to draw your latest breath, 
Where all that's wretched paves the way for deatW * 

Such is that room which one rude beam divides, 
And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; 
Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen; 
And lath and mud are all that lie between ; 
Save one dull- pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives vray 
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : 
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread, 
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head. 
For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 
Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ; 
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile, 
Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile.— — -crubb* 

SECTION VI. 

A Summer Evening's Meditation. 

*One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine." — Yotnr% 

Tis past ! the sultry tyrant of the south 

Has spent his short-liv'd rage More grateful boors 

Move silent on. The skies no more repel 

The dazzled sight ; but, with mild maiden beams 

Of temper'd light, invite the cherish'd eye 

To wander o'er their sphere ; where, hung aloft, 

Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow 

New strung in heav'n, lifts high its beamy horns, 

Impatient for the night, and seems to push 

Her brother down the skv. Fair Venus shines 

E'en in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam 

Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood 

Of soften'd radiance from her dewy locks. 

The shadows spread apace ; while meekenM ewe. 



Crvtp. 3. Descriptive Pieces. t( 

Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires 

Through the Hesperian gardens of the west, 

And shuts the gates of day. 'Tis now the hour 

When contemplation, from her sunless haunts, 

The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth 

Of unpierc'd woods, where, wrapt in silent, shade, 

She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon, 

And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun, 

Moves forward ; and with radiant finger points 

To yon blue concave, swell'd by breath divine, 

Where, one by one, the living eyes of heav'n 

Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether 

One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires. 

And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye, 

Restless and dazzled, wanders unconfin'd 

O'er all this field of glories : spacious field, 

And worthy of the Master ! he whose hand, 

With hieroglyphics elder than the Nile, 

Inscrib'd the mystic tablet, hung on high 

To public gaze ; and said, Adore, O man, 

The finger of thy God ! From what pure wells 

Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn, 

Are all these lamps so fill'd ? thesi friendly lamps, 

For ever streaming o'er the azure deep, 

To point our path, and light us to our home. 

How soft they slide along the lucid spheres ! 

And, silent as the foot of time, fulfil 

Their destin'd courses. Nature's self is hush'd, 

And, but a scatter'd ±eaf, which rustles through 

The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard 

To break the midnight air ; through the rais'd ear, 

Tntensely list'ning, drinks in ev'ry breath. 

How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise I 

But are they silent all ? or is there not 

A tongue in ev'ry star that talks with man, 

And woos him to be wise ? nor woos in vain : 

This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, 

And wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 

At this still hour the self-collected soul 

Turns inward, and beholds a stranger there 

Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; 

An embryo God ; a spark of fire divine, 

Which must burn on for ages, when the sun 

[Fair transitory creature of a day !) 

Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades ; 

Forgets his wonted journey through the east. 

Ye citacels of light, and seats of bliss ! 
Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, 
Revolving periods past, may oft look back, 
With recollected tenderness, on all 



j64 Sequel to the English Reader. Pwri ft 

The various busy scenes she left below, 

Its deep-laid projects, and its strange events, 

As on some fond and doting- tale that sooth'd 

Her infant hours. — O be it lawful now 

To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts, 

And, with mute wonder and delighted awe, 

Approach your burning- confines ! — Seiz'd in though*. 

On fancy's wild and roving wing I sail 

From the green borders of the peopled earth, 

And the pale moon, her duteous fair attendant ; 

From solitary Mars ; frcm the vast orb 

Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk 

Dances in ether like the lightest leaf; 

To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, 

Where cheerless Saturn, 'midst his wat'ry moons, 

Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, 

Sits like an exil'd monarch. Fearless thence 

I launch into the trackless deeps of space, 

Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, 

Of elder beam ; which ask no leave to shine 

Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light 

From the proud regent of our scanty day : 

Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, 

And only less than He who marks their track, 

And guides their fiery wheels. Here must 1 stop, 

Or is there aught beyond ? What hand unseen 

Impels me onward, through the glowing orbs 

Of habitable nature, far remote, 

To the dread confines of eternal night, 

To solitudes of vast unpeopled space, 

The deserts of creation, wide and wild, 

Where embryo systems and unkindled suns 

Sleep in the womb of chaos ? Fancy droops, 

And Thought astonish'd stops her bold career. 

But, oh, thou mighty MIND ! whose pow'rful word 

Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were, 

Where shall I seek thy presence ? how, unblam'd, 

Invoke thy dread perfection ; — — 

Have the broad eye-lids of the morn beheld thee ? 

Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion 

Support thy throne ? O look with pity down 

On erring, guilty man ! not in thy names 

Of terror clad ; not with those thunders arm'd 

That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appalPd 

The scatter'd tribes : thou hast a gentler voice, 

That whispers comfort to the swelling heart, 

Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker. 

But now, my soul, unus'd to stretch her powVt 
In flight so daring, drops her weary wing, 
And seeks again the known accustom'd spot, 



Chnp. 3. Descriptive Pieces 1&5 

Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams ; 

A mansion fair and spacious for its guest, 

And full replete with wonders. Let me here, 

Content and grateful, wait th 1 appointed time, 

And ripen for the skies : the hour will come, 

When all these splendours, bursting on my sight, 

Shall stand unveii'd, and to my ravish'd sense 

Unlock the glories of the world unknown. barbauld. 

SECTION VII. 

Cheerfulness. 

Fair as the dawning light ! auspicious guest ! 
Source of all comfort to the human breast ! 
Deprived of thee, in sad despair we moan, 
And tedious roll the heavy moments on. 
Though beauteous objects all around us rise, 
To charm the fancy, and delight the eyes ; 
Though art's fair works and nature's gifts conspire 
To please each sense, and satiate each desire, 
^Tis joyless all — till thy enliv'ning ray 
Scatters the melancholy gloom away. 
Then opens to the soul a heavenly scene, 
Gladness and peace, all sprightly, all serene. 

Where dost thou deign, say, in what blest retreat, 
To choose thy mansion, and to fix thy seat ? 
Thy sacred presence how shall we explore ? 
Can av'rice gain thee with her golden store ? 
Can vain ambition, with her boasted charms, 
Tempt thee within her wide extended arms ? 
No, with Content alone canst thou abide, 
Thy sister, ever smiling by thy side. 

When boon companions, void of ev'ry care, 
Crown the full bowl, and the rich banquet share, 
And give a loose to pleasure — art thou there i 
Or when th' assembled great and fair advance 
To celebrate the mask, the play, the dance, 
Whilst beauty spreads its sweetest charms around, 
And airs ecstatic swell their tune-ful sound, 
Art thou within the pompous circle found ? 
Does not thy influence more sedately shine ? 
Can such tumultuous joj's as these be thine ? 
Surely more mild, more constant in their course. 
Thy pleasures issue from a nobler source ; 
From sweet discretion ruling in One breast, 
From passions temper'd, and from lusts reprettj 
From thoughts unconscious of a guilty smart, 
And the calm transports of an honest heart. 

Thy aid, O ever faithful, ever kind ! 
Through life, through death, attends the virttttmi misd j 



lare, > 
• ? J 

} 



56 Sequel to the English Reader. Pa* L 

Of angry fate wards from us ev'ry blow, 

Cures ev'ry ill, and softens ev'ry wo. 

Whatever good our mortal state desires, 

What wisdom finds, or innocence inspires ; 

From nature's bounteous hand whatever flows, 

Whatever our Maker's providence bestows, 

By thee mankind enjoys ; by thee repays 

A grateful tribute of perpetual praise. fitz-gerald. 

SECTION VIII. 

Providence. 

Lo ! now the ways of heaven's eternal King 

To man are open ! 

Review them and adore ! Hear the loud voice 

Of Wisdom sounding in her works !— " Attend, 

Ye sons of men ! ye children of the dust, 

Be wise ! Lo ! I was present, when the Sire 

Of heav'n pronounc'd his fiat; when his eye 

Glanc'd through the guif of darkness, and his hand 

Fashion'd the rising universe : — I saw, 

O'er the fair lawns, the heaving mountains raise 

Their pine-clad spires ; and down the shaggy cliff 

I gave the rill to murmur. The rough mounds 

That bound the madd'ning deep ; the storm that roan 

Along the desert : the volcano fraught 

With burning brimstone ; — I prescribe their ends. 

I rule the rushing winds, and, on their wings 

Triumphant, walk the tempest. — To my call 

Obsequious bellows the red bolt, that tears 

The cloud's thin mantle, when the gushing show'r 

Descending copious bids the desert bloom." 

" I gave to man's dark search superior light, 
And clear'd dim reason's misty view, to mark 
His pow'rs, as through revolving ages tried, 
They rose not to his Maker. Thus prepared 
To know how distant from his narrow ken 
The truths by heav'n reveal'd, my hand displayed 
The plan fair op'ning, where each nobler view, 
That swells th' expanding heart ; each glorious hope, 
That points ambition to its goal ; each aim, 
That stirs, exalts, and animates desire ; 
Pours on the mind's rapt sight a noon-tide ray." 

" Nor less in life employ 'd, 'tis mine to raise 
The desolate of heart ; to bend the brow 
Of stubborn pride, to bid reluctant ire 
Subside ; to tame rude nature to the rein 
Of virtue. What though, screen'd from mortal Tiew, 
I walk the deep'ning gloom ? What though my ways. 
Remote from thought's bewilder'd search, are wrapt 



Chqp. 3, Descriptive Pieces. 15^ 

In triple darkness ? — Yet I work the springs 

Of life, and to the gen'ral good direct 

Th' obsequious means to move. — O ye, who toss'd 

On life's tumultuous ocean, eye ti*e shore, 

Yet far remov'd ; and wish the happy hour, 

When slumber on her downy couch shall lull 

Your cares to sweet repose ; yet bear awhile, 

And I will guide you to the balmy climes 

Of rest ; will lay you by the silver stream 

Crown'd with elysian bow'rs, where peace extends 

Her blooming olive, and the tempest pours 

Its killing blast no more." Thus Wisdom speaks 

To man ; thus calls him through the external form 

Of nature, through Religion's fuller noon, 

Through life's bewild'ring mazes ; to observe 

A PROVIDENCE IN ALL. OGILVIE 

SECTION IX. 

The last day. 

At the destin'd hour, 
By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, 
See, ail the formidable sons of fire, 
Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play 
Their various engines ; all at once disgorge 
Their blazing magazines ; and take by storm 
This poor terrestrial citadel of man. 
Amazing period ! when each mountain-height 
Out-burns Vesuvius ; rocks eternal pour 
Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd ; 
Stars rush -, and final ruin fiercely drives 
Her ploughshare o'er creation ! — while aloft, 
More than astonishment ! if more can be ! 
Far other firmament than e'er was seen, 
Than e'er was thought by man S far other stars 1 
Stars animate, that govern these of fire ; 
Far other sun ! — A sun, O how unlike 
The babe at Bethlem! How unlike the man 
That groan'd on Calvary ! — Yet he it is ; 
That man of sorrows ! O how chang'd ! what pompi 
In grandeur terrible, Vll heav'n descends : 
A swift archangel, with his golden wing, 
A.s blots and clouds, that darken and disgrace 
The sc^ne divine, sweeps stars and suns aside. 
And now, all dross remov'd, heaven's own pure day, 
Full on the confines of our ether, flames : 
While, (dreadful contrast !) far, how far beneath! 
Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing seas, 
And storms sulphureous ; her voracious jaws 
Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey. 
O 



158 Sequel to the English Reader Pari t 

At midnight, when mankind is wrapp'd in peace. 
And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams, 
Man, starting from his couch_ shall sleep no more ! 
The day is broke, wb ; ch never more shall close ! 
Above, around, beneath, amazement all ! 
Terror and glory join'd in their extremes ! 
Our God in grandeur, and our world on fire ! 
All nature struggling in the pangs of death ! 
Dost thou not hear ? dost thou not deplore 
Her strong convulsions, and her final groan ? 
Where are we now ? Ah me ! the ground is gone 
On which we stood ! Lorenzo ! while thou mayst, 
Provide more firm support, or sink forever ! 
Where ? how ? from whence ? vain hope ! it is too late! 
Where, where, for shelter, shall the guilty fly, 
When consternation tarns the good man pale ! 

Great day : for which all other days were made ; 
For which earth rose from chaos ; man from earth ; 
And an eternity, the date of gods, 
Descended on poor earth-created man ! 
Great day of dread, decision, and despair ! 
At thought of thee, each sublunary wish 
Lets go its eager grasp, and drops the world ; 
And catches at each reed of hope in heav'n. 
Already is begun the grand assize, 
In us, in all ; deputed conscience scales 
The dread tribunal, and foresialls our doom ; 
Forestalls ; and, by forestalling, proves it sure. 
Why on himself should man void judgment pass % 
Is idle nature laughing at her sons ? 
Who conscience sent, her sentence will support, 
And God above assert that God in man. 
Thrice happy they, that enter now the court 
Heav'n opens in their bosoms ; but how rare ! 
Ah me ! that magnanimity, how rare ! 
What hero, like the man who stands himself? 
Who dares to meet his naked heart alone ; 
Who hears intrepid the full charge it brings, 
Resolv'd to silence future murmurs there ? 
The coward flies ; and, flying, is undone. 
Shall man alone, whose fate, whose final fate, 
Hangs on that hour, exclude it from his thought? 
I think of nothing else ; I see ! I feel it ! 
All nature, like an earthquake, trembling rouiw? ! 
I see the Judge enthron'd ! the flaming guard ! 
The volume opened ! open'd ev'ry heart ! 
A sun-beam pointing out each secret thought I 
No patron! intercessor none! now past 
The sweet, the clement, mediatorial hour ! 
For guilt no plea! to pain, no pause! no bound! 



I 



i&ap 4, Pathetic Pieces. ISA 

Inexorable, all! and ill extreme! 

Nor man alone ; the foe of God and man, 

Fromliisdaifcden,blaspheming, drags his chain, 

And rears his brazen front, with S ider icarr'd. 

Like meteors in a stormy sky, how roll 

His baleful eyes! he curses whom he dreads ; 

And deems it the first moment of his fall. youh 



CHAPTER IV. 

PATHETIC PIECES. 

SECTION I 

Hymn to Humanity. 

PARENT of virtue, if thine ear 

Attend not now to sorrow's cry ; 
If now the pity-streaming tear 

Should haply on thy cheek be dry ; 
Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity ! 
Come, ever welcome to my breast, 
A tender, but a cheerful guest ! 
Nor always in the gloomy cell 
Of life-consuming sorrow dwell ; 
For sorrow, long indulged and slow, 
Is to humanity a foe ; 
And grief, that makes the heart its prey, 
Wears sensibility away. 
Then comes, sweet nymph, instead of thee, 
The gloomy fiend Stupidity. 
O may that fiend be banlshM far, 
Though passions hold perpetual war ! 
Nor ever let me cease to know 
The pulse that throbs at joy or wo. 
Nor let my vacant cheek be dry, 
When sorrow fills a brotnir'c eye ; 
Nor may the tear that frequent flows 
From private or from social woes, 
E'er make this pleasing sense depart * 
Ye cares, O harden not my heart ! 
If the fair star of fortune smile, 
Let not its flattering pow'r beguile ; 
Nor, borne along the favoring tide, 
My full sails swell with bloating prid«. 
Let me from wealth but uope content, 
Remembering still it was but lent ; 
To modest merit spread my store, 
Unbar <*$v hospitable door ; 



160 Sequel to the English Reader P trl I 

Nor feed, for pomp, an idle tkain. 

While want unpitied pines in vain. 

If Heav'n, in ev'ry purpose wise, 

The envied lot of wealth denies ; 

If doom'd to drag- life's painful load 

Through poverty's uneven road, 

And, for the due bread of the day, 

Destin'd to toil as well as pray ; 

To thee, Humanity, still true, 

I'll wish the good I cannot do ; 

And give the wretch, that passes by, 

A soothing word — a tear — a sigh. 

Howe'er exalted, or deprest, 

Be ever mine the feeling breast 

From me remove the stagnant mind 

Of languid indolence, reclin'd ; 

The soul that one long sabbath keeps, 

And through the sun's whole circle sleeps 

Dull peace, that dwells in folly's eye, 

And self-attending vanity, 

Alike the foolish and the vain 

Are strangers to the sense humane. 

O for that sympathetic glow 

Which taught the holy tear to flow, 

When the prophetic eye survey 'd 

Sion in future ashes laid ; 

Or, rais'd to Heav'n, implor'd the bread 

That thousands in the desert fed ! 

Or, when the heart o'er friendship's grave 

Sigh'd — and forgot its pow'r to save — 

for that sympathetic glow, 
Which taught the holy tear to flow ! 
It comes; it fills my lab'ring breast, 

1 feel my beating heart opprest. 
Oh! hear that lonely widow's wail I 
See her dim eye ; her aspect pale ! 
To Heav'n she turns in deep despair ; 
Her infants wonder at her pray*r, 
And, mingling tears, they know not why 
Lift up their little hands, and cry. 
O Lord! their moving sorrows see ! 
Support them, sweet Humanity ! 
Lite, fill'd with grief's distressful train 
For ever asks the tear humane. 
Behold in yon unconscious grove 
The victims of ill-fated love ! 
Heard you that agonizing throe ' 
Sure this is not romantic wo ! 
The golden day of joy is o'er ; 
And now they part — to meet no more. 



W*Sp i. Patfietic Pieces Ml 

Assist them, hearts from anguish free ; 
Assist them, sweet Humanity ! 
Parent of virtue, if thine ear 

Attend not now to sorrow's cry ; 
If now the pity-streaming tear 

Should haply on thy cheek be dry, 
Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity ! 

SECTION II. 

A night-piece on death. 

By the blue taper's trembling light, 
No more I waste the wakeful night, 
Intent wkh endless view to pore 
The schoolmen and the sages o'er : 
Their books from wisdom widely stray, 
Or point at best the longest way. 
I'll seek a readier path, and go 
Where wisdom's surely taught below. 

How deep yon azure dies the sky ! 
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, 
While through their ranks in silver pride 
The nether crescent seems to glide. 
"The slumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe, 
The lake is smooth and clear beneath, 
Where once again the spangled show 
Descends to meet our eyes below. 
The grounds wlich on the right aspire, 
In dimness from the view retire : 
The left presents a place of graves, 
Whose wall the silent water laves. 
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight 
Among the livid gleams of night ; 
There pass with melancholy state, 
By all the solemn heaps of fate, 
And think, as softly-sad you tread 
Above the venerable dead, e 
* Time was, like thee, they life possest, 
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest." 

Those graves with bending osier bound, 
That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 
Quick to the glancing thought disclose 
Where toil and poverty repose. 
The flat smooth stones that bear a name. 
The chisel's slender help to fame ; 
(Which, ere our set of friends decay, 
Their frequent steps may wear away ;) 
A middle race of mortals own, 
Men, half ambitious, all unknown. 
02 



!6t Sequel to tlie English Reader. Fmt I 

The marbie toraos tnat rise on high, 
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 
Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones, 
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones, 
These (all the poor remains of state) 
Adorn the rich, or praise the great ; 
Who while on earth in fame they live, 
Are senseless of the fame they give. 
Ha ! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, 
The bursting earth unveils the shades ! 
All slow, and wan, and wrapped with shrou&% 
They rise in visionary crowds, 
And all with sober accent cry, 
" Think, mortal, what it is to die." 

Now from yon black and funeral yew, 
That bathes the charnel-house with dew, S 

Methinks I hear a voice begin ; 
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, 
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound 
O'er the long lake and midnight ground ;) 
It sends a peal of hollow groans, 
Thus speaking from among the bones. 

" When men my scythe and darts supply, 
Hew great a king of fears am I ! 
They view me like the last of things : 
They make, and then they dread, my stings. 
Fools ! if you less provoke your fears, 
No more my spectre-form appears. 
Death's but a path that must be trod, 
If man would ever pass to God : 
A port of calms, a state of ease 
Frcm the rough rage of swelling seas. w 

" Why then thy flowing sable stoles, 
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles, 
jLoose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, 
Long palls, drawn herses, cover'd steeds, 
And plumes of black, that as they tread, 
Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead r" 

" Nor can the parted body know, 
Nor wants the soul, these forms of wo : 
As men who long in prison dwell, 
With lamps that glimmer round the c^H, 
Whene'er their suff'ring years are run, 
Spring forth to greet the glitt'ring sun ; 
Such joy, though far transcending sense, 
Have pious souls at parting hence. 
On earth, and in the body plac'd, 
A few and evil years they waste , 
But when their chains are cast aside, 
See the glad scene unfolding wide, 



Chap 4 Pathetic Pieces. 163 

Clap the glad wing-, and tow r away, 

And mingle with the blaze of day." p arnell, 

SECTION III. 

fo every condition of Ufe, praise is due to the Creator 

Praise to God, immortal praise, 

For the lore that crowns our days ; 

Bounteous source of ev'ry joy, 

Let thy praise our tongueb employ : 

For the blessings of the field, 

For the stores the gardens yield, 

For the vine's exalted juice, 

For the gen'rous olive's use. 

Flocks that whiten all the plain ; 

Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain ; 

Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews ; 

Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse ; 

All that spring, with bounteous hand, 

Scatters o'er the smiling' land ; 

All that lib'ral autumn pours, 

From her rich o'erflowing stores : 

These to thee, my God, we owe, 

Source from whence all blessings flow; 

And for these my soul shall raise , 

Grateful vows, and solemn praise. 

Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear 

From its stem the rip'ning ear ; 

Should the n fc - -tree's blasted shoot 

Drop her green, untimely fruit ; 

Should the vine put forth no more, 

N.)r the olive yield her store ; 

Though the sick'ning flocks should fall, 

And the herds desert the stall ; 

Should thine alter'd hand restrain 

The early and the latter rain ; 

Blast each op'ning bud of joy, 

And the rising year destroy ; 

Yet, to the* my soul shall raise 

Grateful vows and solemn praise ; 

And, when ev'ry blessing's flown, 

Love thee — for thyself alone. barbaui© 

SECTION IV. 

Folly of human pursuits. 

Blejt be that hand divine, which gently laid 
My heart at rest beneath this humble shed ! 
The world'3 a stately bark, on dang*rous seas* 
With pleasure seen, but boarded at pur peril. 



H4 Seouel to the English Reader. Part t 

Here, on a single plaint, thrown safe ashore, 
I hear the tumult of the distant throng 1 , 
As that of seas remote, or dying storms ; 
And meditate on scenes mors silent still ; 
Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death 
Here, like a shepherd, gazing from his hut, 
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff, 
Eager ambition's fiery chase I see. 
I see the circling haunt of noisy men 
Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right, 
Pursuing and pursu'd, each other's prey ; 
As wolves, for rapine ; as the fox, for wiles ; 
Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them alL 

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 
What though we irade in wealth, or soar in fame* 
Earth's highest station ends in, " here he lies : v 
And " dust to dust" concludes her noblest song 
If this song lives, posterity shall know 
One, though in Britain born, with courtiers bred, 
Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late | 
Nor on his subtle death-bed plann'd his scheme 
For future vacancies, in church, or state ; 
Some avocation deeming it — to die ; 
Unbit by rage canine of dying rich ; 
Guilt's blunder ! and the loudest laugh of helL 

my coevals ! remnant of yourselves ! 
Poor human ruins, tott'ring o'er the grave ! 
Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees, 
Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, 
Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil ? 
Shall our pale, wither'd hands be still stretch'd ov^ 
Trembling at once, with eagerness and age ? 
With av'rice, and convulsions grasping hard ? 
Grasping at air ! for what has earth beside ? 
Man wants but little ; nor that little long : 
How soon must he resign his very dust, 
Which frugal nature lent him for an hour ! 
Years unexperiene'd rush on num'rous ills , 
And soon as man, expert from time, has found 
The key of life, it opes the gates of death. 

When in this vale of years I backward look. 
And miss such numbers, numbers too of such, 
Firmer in health, and greener in their age, 
And stricter on their guard, and fitter far 
To play life's subtle game, I scarce believe 

1 still survive ; and am I fond of life, 
Who scarce can think it possible I live ? 
Alive by miracle ! if still alive, 
Who long have bury'd what gives life to live, 
Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought. 



Lx*if A. Pathetic Pieces. 16* 

Life's lee is not more shallow, than impure, 
And vapid ; sense and reason show the door. 
Call for my bier, and point me to the dust. 

thou great Arbiter of life and death ! 
Nature's immortal, immaterial sun ! 
Whose all prolific beam late call'd me forth 
From darkness, teeming- darkness, where I lay 
The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath 
The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, 
To drink the spirit of the golden day, 
And triumph in existence ; and couldst know 
No motive, but my bliss ; with Abraham's joy, 
Thy call I follow to the land unknown ; 

1 trust in thee, and know in whom I trust : 
Or life, or death, is equal ; neither weighs ; 
All weight in this — O let me live to thee ! youncl 

SECTION V. 

An address to the Deity. 

God of my life, and Author of my days ! 
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ; 
And trembling take upon a mortal tongue 
That hallow'd name to harps of seraphs sung ; 
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more 
Than hide their fac«s, tremble, and adore. 
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere, 
Are equal all, for all are nothing here. 
All nature faints beneath the mighty name, 
Which nature's works, through all her parts proclaim* 
I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, 
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul : 
«As by a charm, the waves of grief subside ; 
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide. 
At thy felt presence all emotions cease, 
And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace ; 
Till ev'ry worldly thought within me dies, 
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; 
Till all my sense is lost in infinite, 
And one vast object fills my aching sight. 
But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ; 
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; 
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, 
And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just, 
Knowing our fame, remembers man is dust. 
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, 
Sees tne first wish to better hopes inclin'd ; 
Marks the young dawn of ev'ry virtuous aim, 
And fans the smoking flax into a flame. 



160 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari t 

His ears are open to the softest cry, 
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ; 
He reads the language of a silent tear, 
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. 
Such are the*-ows, the sacrifice I give ; 
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live : 
From each terrestrial bondage set me free ; 
Still ev'ry wish that centres not in thee ; 
Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, 
And point my path to everlasting peace. 

If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads 
By living waters, and through flow'ry meads 
When all is smiling, tranquil and serene, 
And vernal beauty paints the fiatt'ring scene 
Oh ! teach me to elude each latent snare, 
And whisper to my sliding heart — Beware ! 
With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, 
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice 
If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, 
Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my 
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, 
And with strong confidence lay hold on thoe , 
With equal eye my various lot receive, 
Resign'd to die, or resolute to live : 
Prepar'd to kiss the sceptre or the rod, 
While God is seen in all, and all in God 

I read his awful name emblazon'd high 
With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky ; 
Nor less the mystic characters I see, 
Wrought in each flow'r, inscrib'd on ev'ry &•©•■> 
In ev'ry leaf that trembles to the breeze, 
I hear the voice of God among the trees. 
With thee in shady solitudes I walk, 
With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; 
In ev'ry creature own thy forming pow'r ; 
In each event thy providence adore : 
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, 
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control. 
Thus shall I rest unmov'd by all alarms, 
Secure within the temple of thine arms, 
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors frea, 
And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 
Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh 
And earth recedes before my swimming eye : 
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 
I stand, and stretch my view to-either state ; 
Teach me to quit this transitory scone, 
With decent triumph, and a look serene ; 
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
And, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die. barbAuld 






€h*p 4. Pathetic Pieces. IIT 

SECTION VI. 

A monody on the death of lady Lyttelton 

At length escap'd from ev'ry human eye, 
From ev'ry duty, ev'ry care, 

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, 
Or force my tears their flowing streams to dry , 
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, 
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, 
I now may give my burdened heart relief, 
And pour forth all my stores of grief ; 
Of grief surpassing ev'ry other wo, 
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love 
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow, 
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move 
Our gross desires, inelegant and low. 
Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rills, 

Ye high o'ershadowing hills, 
Ye lawns gay-smiling with perpetual green, 

Oft have you my Lucy seen ! 
But neyer shall you now behold her more : 

Nor will she now, with fond delight, 
And taste refin'd, your rural charms explore : 
Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night , 
Those beauteous eyes, where beaming us'd to shine 
Reason's pure light, and virtue's spark divine. 
In vain I look around, 
O'er all the well-known ground, 
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry ; 
Where oft we us'd to walk ; 
Where oft in tender talk, 
We saw the summer sun go down the sky ; 
Nor by yon fountain's side, 
Nor where its waters glide 
Along the valley, can she now be found ; 
In all the wide stretch'd prospect's ample bound, 
No more my mournful eye 
Can aught of her espy, 
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie 
O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ? 

Your bright inhabitant is lost. 
You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts, 
Where female vanity might wish to shine, 
1 The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts. 

Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye : 
To your sequester'd dales 
And flower embroider'd vales, 
From an admiring world she chose to fly : 



>6* Sequel to the English Reader. Part 3 

With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God, 
The silent paths of wisdom trod. 
And banish'd every passion from her breast ; 
But those, the gentlest and the best, 
Whose holy flames, with energy divine, 
The virtuous heart enliven and improve, 
The conjugal and the maternal love. 
Sweet babes ! who, like the little playful fawns, 
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, 
By your delighted mother's side, 
Who now your infant steps shall guide ! 
Ah ! where is now the hand, whose tender care 
To ev'ry virtue would have form'd your youtL, 
And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth? 
O loss beyond repair ! * 
O wretched father ! left alone, 
To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own ! 
How shall thy weakened mind oppress'd with wo, 

And, drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, 
Perform the duties that you doubly owe t 
Now she, alas ! is gone, 
From folly and from vice their helpless age to save ? 
Oh ! how each beauty of her mind and face 
Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace ! 
How eloquent in ev'ry look, 
Through her expressive eyes, her soul distinctly spoke I 
How did her manners, by the world refm'd, 
Leave all the taint of modish vice behind, 
And make each charm of polish'd courts agree 
With candid tnth's simplicity, 
And uncorrupted innocence i 
To great, to more than manly sense 
She join'd the soft'ning influence 
Of more than female tenderness. 
How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy, 
Which oft the care of others' good destroy, 
Her kindly-melting heart, 
To every want, and every wo, 
To guilt itself when in distress, 
The balm of pity would impart, 
And all relief that bounty could bestow ! 
E'en for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life 
Beneath the bloody knife, 
Her le tears would fall ; 
Tears, from t virtue's source, benevolent to a& 

Not only good and kind, 
But strong and elevated was her mind : 
A spirit that, with noble pride, 
Could look superior down 
'On fortune's smile or frown , 



Ciof 4 Pathetic Pieces 139 

Tnat could, without regret or pam, 
To virtue's lowest duty sacrifice 
Or interest or ambition's highest prize; 
That, injur'd or offended, nev<?r tried 
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain, 
But by magnanimous disdain. 
A wit that, temperately bright, 
With inoffensive light, 
All pleasing shone ; nor ever pass'd 
Tae decent bounds that wisdom's sober han4 
And sweet benevolence's mild command, 
And bashful modesty, before it cast. 
A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd, 
That nor too little nor too much believ'd ; 
That scorn'd unjust suspicion's coward fear, 
And, without weakness, knew to be sincere. 
Such Lucy was, when in her fairest days, 
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise, 
In life's and glory's freshest bloom, 
Death came remorseless on, and sunk her lo the tomb. 
So where the silent streams of Liris glide, 
In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, 
When now the wintry tempests all are fled, 
And genial summer breathes her gentle gale, 
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head ; 
From ev'ry branch the balmy flow'rets rise, 
On ev'ry bough the golden fi uits are seen ; 
With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies, 
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th' Idalian queen t 
But, in the midst of all its blooming pride, 
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows, 
Cold with perpetual snows ; 
''he tender-blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and dies. 
O best of women ! dearer far to me 
Than when, in blooming life, 
My lips first cail'd thee wife ; 
How can my so*** endure the loss of thee ? 
How, in the world, to me a desert grown, 

Abandon'd and alone, 
Without my sweet companion can I live ." 

Without thy lovely smile, 
The dear reward of ev'ry virtuous toil, 
What pleasures now can pall'd ambition give ? 
E'en the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise, 
Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could rake. 
For my distracted mind 
What succour can I find ? 
On wbom for consolation shall I call ? 
P 



110 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari 5. 

Support me, ev'ry friend ; 

Your kind assistance lend, 
To bear the weight of this oppressive wo. 

Alas ! each friend of mine, 
My dear departed love, so much was thine, 
That none has any comfort to bestow. 

My books, the best relief 

In ev'ry other grief, 
Are now with your idea sadden'd all: 
Each fav'rite author we tog-ether read 
My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead. 
We were the happiest pair of human kind : 
The rolling- year its various course performed, 

And back returned ag-ain ; 
Another, and another, smiling- came, 
And saw our happiness unchanged remain. 

Still in her g-olden chain 
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind ; 
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. 

O fatal, fatal stroke ! 
That all this pleasing fabric love had raisM 

Of rare felicity, 
On which e'en wanton vice with envy gaz'd, 
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had tcrm'd 
With soothing- hope for many a future day, 

In one sad moment broke ! 
Yet, O my soul ! fhy rising- murmur stay ; 
Nor dare th' all-wise Disposer to arraign, 

Or against his supreme decree 

With impious grief complain. 
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade, 
Was his most righteous will — and be that will obeyM 
Would thy fond lore his grace to her control ; 
And, in these low abodes of sin and pain, 

Her pure exalted soul, 
Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain ? 
No — rather strive thy grov'lling mmd to raise 

Up to that unclouded blaze, 
That heav'nly radiance of eternal light, 
la which enthroned, she now with pity sees, 
How frail, how insecure, how slight, 

Is every mortal bliss ; 
Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees 
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state, 

Whose fleeting joys so soon must end, 
It doe9 not to its sovereign good ascend. 
Rise then, my soul, with hope elate, 
And seek those regions of serene delight, 



Ou*//. b • Promiscuous Pieces. lH 

Whose peaceful path, and ever-open gate, 
No feet but tnose of harden'd guilt shall miss ; 
There, death himself thy Lucy shall restore ; 
There yield up all his pow'r, ne'er to divide you more. 

LORD LTTTELTOH. 



CHAPTER V. 
PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 

SECTION I. 

Hymn to contentment. 

LOVELY, lasting peace of mind ! 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heav'nly born, and bred on high, 
To crown the fav'rites of the sisy, 
With mce of happiness below, 
Than victors in a triumph know ! 
Whither, oh whither art thou fled, 
To lay thy meek contented head ? 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calm and ease ? 

Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there 
Increasing avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd : 
The bold adventurer ploughs his way 
Through rocks, amidst the foaming sea, 
To gain thy love ; and then perceives 
Thou wast not in the rocks and waves. 
The silent heart which grief assails, 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the Tales, 
Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
And seeks (as I have vainly done) 
Amusing thought ; but learns to know 
That solitude^ the nurse of wo. 
No real happiness is found 
In trailing purple o'er the ground ; 
Or in a soul exalted high, 
To range the circuit of the sky, 
Converse with stars above, and know 
All nature in its forms below : 
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies ; 
And doubts at last for knowledge rise 

Lovely, lasting peace, appear ; 
This world itself, if thou art here, 



J1* Sequel to the English Reader. Part 9 

Is once again with Eden blest, 
And man contains it in his breast. 

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sung my wishes to the wood, 
And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
The branches whisper as they wavtt : 
It seem'd as all the quiet place 
Confessed the presence of the grace ; 
When thus she spoke : — '} Go rule thy will, 
Bid thy wild pasaions all be still ; 
Know God, and bring thy heart to know 
The joys which from religion flow ; 
Then evVy grace shall prove its g'lest, 
And I'll be there to crown the rest. w 

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, 
In my hours of sweet retreat, 
Might I thus my soul employ, 
With sense of gratitude and joy, 
RaisM as ancient prophets were, 
In heav'nly vision, praise, and pray'r; 
Pleasing ail men, hurting none, 
Pleas'd and blest witn God alone ; 
Then while the gardens take my sight, 
With all the colours of delight ; 
While silver waters glide along, 
To please my ear, and cGurt my song ; 
PU lift my voice and tune my string, 
And thee, Great Source of Nature, sing. 
The sun that walks his airy way, 
To light the world, and give the day ; 
The moon that shines with borrowed light • 
The stars that gild the gloomy night ; 
The seas that roll unnumbered waves; 
The wood that spreads its shady leaves ; 
The field whose ears conceal the grain, 
The yellow treasure of the plain : 
All of these, and all I see, 
Should be sung, and sung by me : 
They speak their Maker as they can- 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 

Go search among your idle dreams, 
Your busy or your vain extremes ; 
And find a life of equal bliss, 
Or c?m the next begun in this. pabnelx 

SECTION II. 

An Elegy written in a country churchward 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
TL? lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 



CH *> S Promiscuous Pieces MS 

"Hie ploughman homeward plods bis weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 

And all the ..ir a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
Bare that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, 

The moping- owl does to the moon complain 
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, . 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke, 
How jocund did they drive their tearae afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
Await, alike, th' inevitable hour ; 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 

If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, 

The pealing anthem swells the note of praice. 
Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death ? 
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 

Or wake to ecstasy the living lyre. 
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol ; 
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 
P2 



1 ?4 Sequel tithe English Reader. *L#f ft 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest ; 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 
Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone 

Thei growing virtues ; but their crimes confin'd, 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 

With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muss 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die ; 
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing, anxious being ere resign'd, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? 
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
If, chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 

T|jat wreathaa Its old fantastic rnntm « 



Chap 5 Promiscuous Pieces, 175 

His listless lengtn at noon tide would he stretch, 

And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. 
Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 

Mutfring his wayward fancies, he would rove; 
Now drooping-, woful, wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazM with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 
One morn I miss'd him on the accustomed hill, 

Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree : 
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 
The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the church-yard path we saw him borne 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 

GravM on the stone beneath yon - god t>>or M 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 

A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 

And Melancholy markM him for her own. 
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
He gave to MisVy all he had, a tear ; 

He gained from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend 
No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 

The bosom of his Father and his God.— — -ORAT. 

SECTION III. 

Ode to Wisdom. 

The solitary bird of night 

Through the pale shades now wings ha flight, 

And quits the time-shook tow'r, 
Where, sheltered from the blaze of day, 
In philosophic gloom he lay, 

Beneath his ivy bow'r. 
With joy I hear the solemn sound, 
Which midnight echoes waft around, 

And sighing gales repeat : 
FavVfce of Pallas ! I attend, 
And, faithful to thy summons, bend 

At Wisdom's awful seat. 
She loves the cool, the silent eve, 
Where no false shows of life deceive, 

Beneath the lunar ray : 
Here folly drops each vain disguise, 
Nor sports her gaily-colour'd dyes, 

As in the erlare of dav. 



!*C Sequel to the English Reader. Part t 

O Pallas ! queen of ev'ry art 

" That glacis the sense or mencL the heart,* 

Blest source of purer joys ; 
In ev'ry form of beauty bright, 
That captivates the mental sight 

With pleasure and surprize ; 
To thy unspotted shrine I bow, 
Assist thy modest suppliant's vow, 
That breathes no wild desires : 
But, taught by thy unerring rules 
To shun the fruitless wish of fools, 

To nobler views aspires. 
Not Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume, 
Nor Cytherea's fading bloom, 

Be objects of my prayer : 
Let av'rice, vanity, and pride, 
These glitt'ring envied toys divide, 

The dull rewards of care. 
* To me thy better gifts impart, 
Each moral beauty of the heart, 

By studious thought refin'd : 
For wealth, the smiles of glad content ; 
For pow'r, its amplest, best extent, 

An empire o'er my mind. 
When fortune drops her gay parade, 
When pleasure's transient roses fade, 

And wither in the tomb, 
Unchang'd is thy immortal prize, 
Thy ever-verdant laurels rise 

In undecaying bloom. 
By thee protected, I defy 
The coxcomb's sneer, the stupid lie 

Of ignorance and spite.; 
Alike contemn the leaden fool, 
And all the pointed ridicule 

Of undiscerning wit. 
From envy, hurry, noise, and strife, 
The dull impertinence of life, 

In thy retreat I rest ; 
Pursue thee to thy peaceful groves, 
Where Plato's sacred spirit roves, 

In all thy graces drest. 
He bid Ilyssus' tuneful stream 
Convey the philosophic theme 

Of perfect, fair, and good : a 

Attentive Athens caught the sound. 
And all her list'ning sons around, 

In awful silence stood. 
Reclaim'd, her wild licentious youth 
Confess'd the potent voice of truth 



Promiscuous Pieces T7 

And felt its just control : 
The passions ceas'd their loud alarms, 
And virtue's soft persuasive charms 

O'er all their senses stole. 
Thy breath iuspires the poet's song, 
The patriot's free unbiass'd tongue, 

The hero's gen'rous strife : 
Thine are retirement's silent joys, 
And all the sweet endearing ties 

Of still, domestic life. 
No more to fabled names confin'd, 
To thee, supreme, all-perfect mind, 

My thoughts direct their flight : 
Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force 
From thee deriv'd, unchanging source 

Of intailectual light ! 
O send her sure, her steady ray 
To regulate my doubtful way, 

Through life's perplexing road ; 
The mists of error to control ; 
And through its gloom direct my soul 

To happineso and good ! 
Beneath her clear discerning eye 
The visionary shadows fly 

Of Folly '6 painted show : 
She sees, through ev'ry fair disguise, 
That all but Virtue's solid joys 

Is vanity and wo. carter. 

SECTION IV. 

The Rake and the Hermit. 

A youth, a pupil of the town, 

Philosopher and atheist grown, 

Benighted once upon the road, 

Found out a hermit's lone abode, 

Whose hospitality in need 

Reliev'd the trav'ller and his steed ; 

For both sufficiently were tir'd, 

Well drench'd in ditches, and bemirM 

Hunger the first attention claims ; 

Upon the coals a rasher flames. 

Dry crusts, and liquor something stale, 

Were added to make up a meal ; 

At which our trav'ller as he sat, 

By intervals began to chat. — 

Tis odd, quoth he, to think what strains 

Of folly govern some folks' brains: 

What makes you choose this wild abode > 

You'll say, 'Tis to converse with God 



Sequel to the English Reader. JPm 1. 

AHife, I fear, His all a whim ; 

You never saw or spoke with him. 

They talk of providence's pow'r, • 

And say, it rules us ev'ry hour : 

To me all nature seems confusion, 

And such weak fancies mere delusion. 

Say, if it rul'd and govern'd right, 

Could there be such a tiling- as night ; 

Which, when the sun has left the skies, 

Puts all things in a deep disguise ? 

If then a trav'ller chance to stray 

The least step from the public way, 

He's soon in endless mazes lost, 

As I have found it to my cost. 

Besides, the gloom which nature wears 

Assists imaginary fears, 

Of ghosts and goblins from the waves 

Of sulph'rous lakes and yawning graves j 

All sprung from superstitious seed, 

Like other maxims of the creed. 

For my part, I reject the tales 

Which faith suggests when reason fails ; 

And reason nothing understands, 

Unwarranted by eyes and hands. 

These subtile essences, like wind, 

Which pome have dreamt of, and call rmnd, 

It ne'er admits ; nor joins the lie, 

Which says men rot, but never die. 

It holds all future things in doubt, 

And therefore wisely leaves them out ; 

Suggesting what is worth our care, 

To take things present as they are, 

Our wisest course : the rest is folly, 

The fruit of spleen and melancholy.—- 

Sir, quoth the Hermit, I agree 
That Reason still our guide should be ; 
And will admit her as the test 
Of what is true, and what is best ; 
But Reason sure would blush for shame 
At what you mention in her name ; 
Her dictates are sublime and holy ; 
Impiety's the child of Fo?ly. 
Reason, with measur'd steps and slow, 
To things above from things below 
Ascends, and guides us through her sphere 
With caution, vigilance, and care. 
Faith in the utmost frontier stands, 
And Reason puts us in her hands ; 
But not till her commission giv'n 
Is found authentic, and from Heav'n. 






Cfiap. f . Promiscuous Pieces. 

*Tis strange that man, a reasoning creature, 

fenould miss a God in viewing nature; 

Whose high perfections are display'd 

In ev'ry thing- his hands have made. 

Ev'n when we think their traces lost, 

When found again, we see them most : 

The night itself, which you would blame 

A3 something wrong in nature's frame, 

Is but a curtain to invest 

Her weary children when at rest : 

Like that which mothers draw to keep 

The light off from a chdd asleep. 

Beside, the fears which darkness breeds 

(At least augments) in vulgar heads, 

Are far from useless, when the mind 

Is narrow, and to earth confin'd : 

They make the worldling think with pain 

On frauds, and oaths, and ill got gain; 

Force from the ruffian's hand the knife 

Just rais'd against his neighbour's life ; 

And in defence of virtue's cause, 

Assist each sanction of the iaws. 

But souls sereue, where wisdom dwells, 

And superstitious dread expels, 

The silent majesty of night 

Excites to take a nobler flight ; 

With saints and angels to explore 

The wonders of creating pow'r ; 

And lifts on contemplation's wing3 

Above the sphere of mortal things. 

Walk forth, and tread those dewy plains 

Where night in awful silence reigns ; 

Thy sky's serene, the air is still, 

The woods stand Iist'ning 01 each hill, 

To catch the sounds that sink And swell, 

Wide-floating from the ev'ning bell, 

While foxes howl, and beetles hum, 

Sounds which make silence still more <4umbt 

And try if folty, rash and rude, 

Dare on the sacred hour intrude. 

Then turn your eyes to heaven's broad frame) 

Attempt to quote those lights by name, 

Which shine so thick, and spread so far; 

Conceive a sun in ev'ry star, 

Bound which unnu.nber'd planets roll, 

W T hile comets shoot athwart the whole; 

From system still to system ranging, 

Their various beueiits exchanging, 

And shaking from their flaming hair 

The things most needed ev 7 ry where— 



00 Sequel to the English Reaaer. fartf 

Explore this glorious scene, and say, 
That night discovers less than day ; 
That 'tis quite useless, and a sign 
That chance disposes, not design : 
Whoe'er maintains it, I'll pronounce 
Him either mad, or else a dunce ; 
For reason, though 'tis far from strong, 
Will soon find out that nothing's wrong, 
From signs and evidences clear 
Of wise contrivance ev'ry where. 

The Harmit ended, and the youth 
Became a convert to the truth : 
At least he yielded, and confess'd 
That all was order'd for the best. wilkik 

SECTION V. 

The Deserted Village, 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain 

Where smiling spriDg its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd , 

Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please, 

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 

How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm, 

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and youthful converse made ! 

How often have I bless'd the coming day, 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play ; 

And all the village train, from labour free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old survey'd ; 

And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these. 

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; 

These round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence shed , 

These were thy charms, — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village ! loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 



Pvtp 5. Promiscuous Pieces. J8j 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But cbok'd with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks, the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering' wall ; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decny 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 
A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When ev'ry rood of ground maintained its man ; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome store ; 
Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more : 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain. 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repose ; 
And ev'ry want to luxury allied, 
And ev'ry pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
Those healthful sports that grae'd the peaceful scene, 
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's pow'r. 
Here as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds ; 
And many a year elaps'd, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew ; 
Rememb'rance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, ana turns the past to pain. 

In all my wand'rings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has giv'n my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close,. 
And keer> the flame from wasting, by repos© t 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst tie swains to show my book-learn'd &bj&} 

Q 



182 Sequel to the English Reader Part 2. 

Around ray fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw : 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreat from care that never must be mine ! 
flow blest is he, who crowns, in shades like these 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last, 
His heav'n commences ere the world be past ! 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's clos* 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; 
There as I pass'd, with careless steps and slow, s 
The mingling notes came softenM from below ; 
The swain, responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering vr)M 
And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind ; 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled : 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
»?he, wretched matron ! fore'd in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till mom ; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiPd 
And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild, 
There where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 






th*p. 5 Promiscuous Piece*. ItS 

A man he was, to all the. country de?r, 
And passing rich, with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place- 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for pow'r, 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hovr; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain ; 
The long-i emember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd : 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their wo: 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side « 
But, in his duty prompt at ev'ry call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all : 
And, as a bird each fond endearment u »es. 
To tempt her new-fledg'd offspring to «htf skies; 
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull de rv, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the wax • 

Beside the bed, where parting life was la>d, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismav\i, 
The rev'reud champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish lied the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway : 
And fools who came to «coff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past, arounu the pious man, 
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran : 
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 
Their welfare pleas 1 d him, and their cares distressed , 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv*n ; 
Cut all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n : 
4s some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 



184 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 1 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling- fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion skilPd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The dav's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he •, 
Full well the busy whisper circling round 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frowned. 
Yet he was kind ; Ox*, if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declar'd how much he knew: 
Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ; 
And e'en the story ran that he could guage» 
In arguing too the parson owa'd his skill, 
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound 
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around ; 
And still they gaz'd> and still the wonder grew, 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame : the very spot 
Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot 

SECTION VI. * 

The Deserted Village, continued, 

Nea^ yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that hcuse where nut-brown draughts inspired. 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place ; 
The white-washM wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of di aw'rs by day ; 
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day % 
With aspen boughs, and flow'rs, and fennel gay; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Kang'd o'er the chimney, glisten in a row. 



Chap. 5 Promiscuous Pieces 

Vain transitory splendour ! could not all 
Retrieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more tne smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple pleasures of the lowy train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of a*t. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and own their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfinM: 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd. 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting a6ks, if this be joy ? 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand, 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around : 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful product still the same. 
Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their growth » 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green. 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all. 
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to olease while youth confirms the reign, 



166 Sequel to the English Reader. Pari % 

Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 

Nor shares with art tne triumpn of her eyes ; 

But when those charms are past, (for charms are frail,) 

When time advances, and when lovers fail, 

She then shines foi*th, solicitous to bless, 

In all the glaring- impotence of dress : 

Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd, 

In nature's simplest charms at first array'd ; 

But, verging to decline, its splendours rise, 

Its vistas strike, iU palaces surprise ; 

While, scourg'd by famine from the smiling" land, 

The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 

The country blooms — a garden and a grave ! 

Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressu/e of contiguous pride ? 
If, to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's wo. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly deck'd admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, tarn thine eyes 
Where the poor houseless, shiv'ring female lies. 
She, once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 
Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the show**, 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 



ZPvip. 5 Promiscuous Pieces, It* 

E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah no ! to distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex *vorld intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their wo. 
Far difPrent there from all that charm'd before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those dazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey ; 
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they: 
While oft in whirls the mad tarnado flies, 
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 

Alas ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, 
That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past, 
Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main • 
And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep ! 
The good old sire the first prepar'd to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others 7 wo : 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his hapless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And bless'd the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose ; 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief, 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 
O luxury ! thou curst by Heav'n's decree, 
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee t 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo ; 



\ Sequel to the English Reader. Part% 

Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the aail, 
That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
And piety with wishes plac'd above, 
And steady loya'ty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly when sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
To catch the heart or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of bliss as well as source of wo, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 
Thou source of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewell ! and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
X)n Torrio's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him that states, of native strength possest, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.— —goldsmith. 

SECTION VII. 

The Traveller ; or, a prospect of todeiy 

Inscribed to the Author's Brother. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wand'ring Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor. 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
\ A weary waste, expanding to the skies ; 



Chap. b. Promiscuous Pieces. *M 

Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untraveil'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a length'niug chain. 

Perpetual blessing:; crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ! 
Eless'd be that spot where cheerful guests retire, 
To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire : 
Bless'd that abode where want and pain repair, 
And ev*ry stranger finds a ready chair : 
Bless'd be those feasts, with simp, lenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jesta or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Oi press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good ! 

But me, not destin'd such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wand'ring spent, and care ; 
Impelled, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view ; 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet as I follow flies ; 
Me fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And plac'd on high, above the storm's career, 
Look downward where an hundred realms appear t 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain * 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd. 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains ..hat dress the flow'ry vale ; 
For me your tributary stores combine ; 
Creation's heir ! the world, the world is mine . 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleas'd with each good that Heav'n to mao supplies , 



100 Sequel to the English Reader Pari % 

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 

To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 

And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 

Some spot to real happiness consigned ; 

Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at rest, 

May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below, 
Who can direct when all pretend to know ? 
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine ; 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam ; 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As difPrent good, by art or nature giv'n, 
To different nations, makes their blessings ev'n. 
Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call. 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs, as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent, 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content , 
Yet these each other's pow'r so strong contest. 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails 
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence ev'ry state, to one lov'd blessing prone, 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
Till carried to excess in each domain, 
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. 
But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies : 
Here for a while, my proper cares resign'd, 
Here let me sit, in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry blast. 

Far to the right, where Appennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer Italy extends , 



Chop. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. Iff 

Its uplands sloping- deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
While oft some temple's moulding tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely biest. 
Whatever fruits in diff'rent climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die : 
These here disporting-, own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born g-ales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the blws that sense alone bestows ; 
And sensual blks is all the nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear ; 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign, 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain : 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves lehind ; 
For wealth was theirs, not far reraov'd the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; 
The canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm ; 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form ; 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display 'd her sail ; 
While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of fomer pride; 
From these the feeble heart and jong-fall'n mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayM, 
The pasteboard triumph, and the cavalcade ; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd * 
The sports of children satisfy the child. 
Each nobler aim repress'd by long control, 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 



Ut Sequel to the English Reader. Pari t 

While low delights, succeeding- fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the rnind : 
As in those domes where Cesars once bore sway, 
Defac'd by tune, and tott'ring in decaj r , 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking- peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. ' 

SECTION VIII. 

The Traveller, continued. 

My soul, turn from them — turn we to survey 
Where roughest climes a nobler race display ; 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tfttr* 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
No product here the barren hills afford, 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
Yet still e'en here content can spread a charm, 
Redress the clime, and all it" rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed : 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
*->ut calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose, 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; , 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 
Or drives his vent'rous plough-share to the steep ; 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, 
. Aod drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped, 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by his cheerful fire, a%d round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze j 
•Vhile his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those hills that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 



Chnp, 6. Promiscuous Pieces. 193 

Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring- sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast ; 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assigned ; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd. 
Yet let them only sha'-e the praises due ; 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few : 
For ev'ry want that stimulates the breast, 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
Whence from such lands each pleasing science fiiei, 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unknown those pow'rs that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a mould'ring fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire: 
Unfit for raptures ; or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till buried in debauch the bliss expire. 
But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow ; 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low : 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son, 
Unalter'd, unimprov'd, the manners run ; 
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
Falls blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast, 
May sit like falcons cow'ring on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Through life's more cultur'd walks, and charm the way 
These, far dispers'd, on tim'rous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 
To kinder skies, where gentler- manners reign, 
T turn — and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleas'd with thyself whom all the world can please^ 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murm'ring Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ; 
And haply, though my harsh touch falt'ring still, 
But mock'd all tune, and rnarr'd the dancer's skill, 
Vet would the village praise my wond'rous pow'r, 
And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour ! 
Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days 
Ifave led their children through the mirthful maze; 
R 



Jii Sequel to the English Reader. Pat* t 

And tne gay grandsire, skill'd ia gestic lore, 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So gay a life these thoughtless realms display ; 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear ; 
For honour forms the social temper here. 
Honour, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from h?Tid to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land. 
From courts to camps, to cottages, it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem ; 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also rocm to rise ; 
For praise too dearly lov'd or warmly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast- 
Hence ostentation, here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion drawa, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land ; 
And sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'ry roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore ; 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 



Ck tp. 5 Promiscuous Pieces. 195 

Are here displayed. Their much-lov'd wealth imparts 

Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 

But, view them closer, craft and fraud appear; 

E'en liberty itself is bartered here. 

At gold's superior charms all freedom flies; 

The needy sell it, and the rich man buys : 

A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 

Here wretches seek dishonourable graves ; 

And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 

Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

O ! how unlike their Btugic sires of olu ; 

Roi'^h, poor, coutent, ungovernably bold; 

War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 

How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on ev'ry spray ; 
Creation's ns ildest charms are there combin'd ; 
Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
Stern o'er eai h bosom reason holds her state, 
With daring aims irregularly great : 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords o ~ human-kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band , 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand ; 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagin'd right, above control ; 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 
Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy, 
But foster'd e'en by freedom ills annoy. 
That independence Britons prize too high, 
Keeps man trom man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone ; 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore; 
Till, over-wrought, the gen'ral system feels 
Its motions stop, or phrenzy fires the wheels. 
Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway. 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 



IM Sequel to thfi English Reader* Pari 2. 

Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 

And talents sink, and merit weeps unknown ; 

Till time may come, when, stripped of all her charms, 

yhe land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 

Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 

Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 

One sink of level avarice shall lie, 

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 

Yet think not thus, when freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. 
Ye powers of truth, that bid mv soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; 
Thou transitory flow'r, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favour's fost'ring sun, 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, 
I only would repress them, to secure : 
For just experience tells, in ev'ry soil, 
That those who think must govern those who toil , 
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach, 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each : 
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

then, how blind to all that truth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast approaching danger warms: 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal pow'r to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 

To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law • 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillag'd from slaves, to purchase slaves at home; 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ; 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 

1 fly from petty tyrants, to the throne. 
Ah, brother ! how disastrous was that hour, 
When first ambition struck at regal pow'r ; 
And thus, polluting honour in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force t 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 
Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore ; 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste. 
Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste . 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train ; 



CJf ^p* S. Fromiscuous Pieces. IfT 

And over fields, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 

la barren, solitary pomp repose ; 

Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 

The smiling- long-frequented village fall ? 

Beheid the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 

The modest matron, and the blushing- maid, 

Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy train, 

To traverse climes beyond the western main ; 

Where wild Osweg-o spreads her swamps around, 

And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound? 

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 

Through tangled forests, and through dang'rous ways; 

Where beasts with man divided empire clpim, 

And the brown Indian marks with murd'rous aim; 

There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 

And all around distressful yells arise, 

The pensive exile, bending with his wo, 

To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 

Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 

And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find, 
that bliss which only centres in the mind ! 
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, 
To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In ev'ry government, though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure? 
Still to ourselves, in ev'ry place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find : 
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy ; 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, 
To men remote from pow'r but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 

GOLDSMITH. 

SECTION IX. 

The vanity of human wishes. 

Let observation, with extensive view, 
Survey mankind from China to Peru ; 
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, 
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life ; 
Then saj 7 how hope and fear, desire and hate, 
Overspread with snares the clouded maze of fate, 
Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous pride, 
To tre?d the dreary paths without a guide, 
R" 



198 Sequel to the English Reader, P&rt % 

As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude, 
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good. 
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, 
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice 
How nations sink by darling- schemes opprest, 
When vengeance listens to the fool's request. 
Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart, 
Each gift of nature, and each grace of art ; 
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, 
With fatal sweetness elocution flows ; 
Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful breath, 
And restless fire precipitates on death. 

But, scarce observ'd, the knowing and the bold 
Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold ; 
Wide-wasting pest ! that rages unconfin'd, 
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind ! 
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, 
For gold the hireling- judge distorts the laws ; 
Wealth heap'd on wealth nor truth nor safety buy» 
The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 

Let hist'ry tell, where rival kings command, 
And dubious title shakes the madden'd land, 
When statutes glean the refuse of the sword, 
How much more safe the vassal than the lord. 
Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of pow'r, 
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the tuw'r ; 
Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound, 
Though confiscat : on's vultures hover round. 
The needy traveller, serene and gay, 
Wa^ks the wild heath, and sings his toil away 
Does envy seize thee ? crush the upbraiding joy, 
Increase his riches and his peace destroy. 
Now fears iii dire vicissitude invade ; 
The rustling brake alarms, and quiv'ring shade ; 
Nor light nor darkness brings his pain relief, 
One shows the plunder, and one hides the thie£ 

Yet still one gen'ral cry the sky assails, 
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales . 
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care, 
Th' insidious rival and the gaping- heir. 

Once more Democritus, arise on earth, 
With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth ; 
See motley life in modern trappings drest, 
And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest : 
Thou who couldst laugh where want enchain'd capricr 
Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece : 
Where wealth unlov'd without a mourner died ; 
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate, 
Or seen a new made mayor's unwieldy state ; 



Chap 5 Promiscuous Pieces. 10* 

Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws, 
And senates heard before they judg'd a cause : 
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe, 
Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe ! 
Attentive, truth and nature to descry, 
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye. 
To thee were solemn toys or empty show, 
The robes of pleasure and the veils of wo : 
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain 
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. 
Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind, 
Renew'd at ev'ry glance on human kind : 
How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, 
Search ev'ry state, and canvass ev'ry pray'r. 

Unnumber'd suppliants crowd preferment's gate, 
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great; 
Delusive fortune hears th' incessant call ; 
They mount, they shine, evaporate and fall. 
On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend, 
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end. 
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's dooi 
Pours in the morning tvoi-shipper no more ; 
For growing names the weekly scribble 1 - lies, 
To growing wealth the dedicator flies ; 
From ev'ry room descends the painted face, 
That hung the bright palladium of the place ; 
And, smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold, 
To better features yields the frame of gold ; 
For now no more we trace in ev'ry line 
Heroic worth, benevolence divine ; 
The form distorted justifies the fall, 
And detestation rids th' indignant wall. 

But will not L ritain hear the last appeal, 
Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav'rites' zeal ? 
Though freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings, 
Degrading nobles and controlling kings ; 
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, 
And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
With weekly libels and septennial ale, 
Their wish is full to riot and to rail. 

In full blown dignity, see Woisey stand, 
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand ; 
To him the church, the realm, their pow'rs consign? 
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine ; 
Tura'd by his nod the stream of honour flows, 
His smile alone security bestows : 
Still to new heights his restless wishes towV ; 
Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r j 
Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please, 
And rights submitted left him none to seize 



fOO Sequel to the English Reader. Pari%. 

At length his sov'reign frowns — the train of state 
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate 
Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye, 
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly : 
Now drops at once the pride of awful state, 
The golden canopy, the glitt'ring plate, 
The regal palace, the luxurious board, 
The liv'ried army, and the menial lord. 
With age, with cares, with maladies opprest, 
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings, 
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 

Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peac* rep'oa, 
Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end be thine ? 
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, 
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent ? 
For why did Wolsey near the steeps of fate, 
On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight ? 
Why but to sink, beneath misfortune's blow, 
With louder ruin to the gulfs below ? 

What gave great Villiers to th' assassin's knife, 
And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life ? 
What murder'd Wentworth, and what exil'd Hj te, 
By kings protected, and to kings ally'd ? 
What but their wish indulg'd in courts to shine, 
And pow'r too great to keep, or to resign ? 

When first the college rolls receive his name, 
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; 
Resistless burns the fever of renown, 
Caught from the strong contagion of the gown: 
O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, 
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head. 
Are these thy views ? proceed, illustrious youth. 
And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth ! 
Yet should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat, 
Till captive science yields her last retreat ; 
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray, 
And pour on misty doubt resistless day ; 
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, 
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain, 
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain , 
Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart ; 
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade, 
Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ; 
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, 
Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee : 
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyei 
And pause awhile from learning, to be wise ; 



Chap. 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 20\ 

There mark what ilk the scholar's life assail, 
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations slowly wise, and meanly just, 
To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend, 
Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end. 

Nor deem, when learning- her last prize bestows, 
The glitt'ring eminence exempt from foes ; 
See, when the vulgar 'scapes, despis'd or aw'd, 
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud. 
From meaner minds, though smaller fines content, 
The plundcr'd palace or sequester'd rent ; 
Mark'd out by dang'rous parts he meets the shock, 
And fatal learning leads him to the block .• 
Around his tomb let art and genius weep, 
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep 

SECTION X. 

The vanity of human wishes, continued. 

The festal blazes, the triumphal show, 
The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe, 
The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale, 
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail. 
Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd, 
For such the steady Romans shook the world ; 
For such in distant lands the Britons shine, 
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine : 
This pow'r has praise, that virtue scarce can warm, 
Till fardjpsupplies the universal charm. 
Yet reason frowns on war's unequal game, 
Where wasted nations raise a single name, 
And mortgag'd states their grandsire's wreaths regret, 
From age to age in everlasting debt; 
Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right convev 
To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide , 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
Unconquer' 1 lord of pleasure and of pain ; 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
Wai sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
Behold surrounding kings their pow'r combine, 
And one capitulate, and one resign ; 
Peace courts his band, but spreads her charms m vain ; 
" Think nothing gain'd," he cries, " till nought remain, 
■* On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 
" And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 



fOt Sequel to the English Reader. Fori % 

The march begins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
Stern famine guards the solitary coast, 
And winter barricades the realms of frost ; 
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay ;— 
Hide blushing- glory, hide Pultowa's day ! 
The vanquish'd hero, leaves his broken bands, 
"* And shows his miseries in distant lands, 
Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait, 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
But did not chance at length her error mend ? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end ? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground 9 
His fall was destin'd. to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
He left the name, at which the world grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

All times their scenes of pompous woes afford, 
From Persia's tyrant, to Bavaria's lord, 
In gay hostility, and barb'rous pride, 
With half mankind embattled at his side, 
Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey, 
And starves exhausted regions in his way ; 
Attendant flatt'ry counts his myriads o'er, 
Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more ; 
Fresh praise is tried till madness fires his mind, 
The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind ; 
New pow'rs are claim'd, new pow'rs are still bestow'd, 
Till rude resistance lops the spreading god ; 
The daring Greeks deride the martial show, 
And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe ; 
Th' insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains, 
A single skiff to speed his flight remains : 
Th' encumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast 
Through purple billows and a floating host. 

The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour, 
Tries the dread summits of Cesarean pow'r, 
With unexpected legions bursts away, 
And sees defenceless realms receive his sway ; 
Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her mournful charms, 
The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ; 
From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze 
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise ; 
The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar, 
With all the sons of ravage crowd the war ; 
The baffled prince, in honour's flatt'ring bloom 
Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom, 
His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame, 
And steals to death from anguish and from shame. 



Chap. 5. Promucuaus Piece*, 203 

Enlarge my life with multitude of days, 
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays : 
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know, 
That life protracted is protracted wo. 
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 
And shuts up all the passages of joy : 
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, 
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flow'r — 
With listless eyes the dotard views the store, 
He views, and wonders that they please no more ; 
Now pall the tasteless meats, and joyless wines. 
And luxury with sighs her slave resigns. 
Approach ye minstrels, try the soothing strain. 
Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain : 
No sounds, alas ! would touch th' impervious ear, 
Though dancing mountains witnessed Orpheus near; 
Nor lute nor lyre his feeble pow'rs attend, 
Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend : 
But everlasting- dictates crowd his tongue, 
Perversely grave, or positively wrong. 
The still returning tale, and lmg'ring jest, 
Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest: 
While growing hopes scarce awe the gathering sneer 
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear ; 
The watchful guests still hint the last offence, 
The daughter's petulance, the son's expense ; 
Improve nis heady rage with treach'rous skill, 
And mould his passions till they make his will. 
Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade, 
Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade ; 
But unextinguish'd av'rice still remains, 
And dreaded losses aggravate his pains : 
He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands, 

His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands ; 

Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes, 

Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. 

But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime 

Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime: 

An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay, 

And glides in modest innocence away : 

Whose peaceful day benevolence endears, 

Whose uight congratulating conscience cheers ; 

The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend : 

Such age there is, and who shall wish its end ? 

Yet e'en on this her load misfortune flings, 

To press the weary minute's flagging wings : 

New sorrow rises as the day returns, 

A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. 

Now kindred merit fills the sable bier, 

Now lacerated friendship claims a tear. 



f04 Sequel to the English Reader. Part 9 

Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 
Still drops some joy from with'ring life away : 
New forms arise, and difPrert views engage, 
Superfluous lags the vet'ran oi. the stage ; 
Till pitying nature signs the last release, 
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 

But few there are whom hours like these await 
Who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate. 
From Lydia's monarch should the search descend, 
By Solon caution'd to regard his end, 
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, 
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! 
From Marlborough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, 
And Swift expires a driv'ller and a show. 

The teeming mother, anxious for her race, 
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face : 
Yet Vane could tell what ills from beaoty spring , 
And Sedley curs'd the form that pleas'd a king. 
Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes, 
Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise ; 
Whom joys with soft varieties invite, 
By day the frolic, and the dance by night ; 
Who frown with vanity, who smile with art, 
And ask the latest fashion of the heart ; 
What care, what rules your heedless cbarms shall save, 
Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave ? 
Against your fame with fondness hate combines, 
The rival batters, and the lover mines. 
With dfftant voice neglected virtue calls ; 
Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance r alls ; 
Tir'd with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry rein, 
And pride and prudence take her seat in vain. 
In crowd at once, where none the pass defend, 
The harmless freedom, and the private friend. 
The guardians yield, by force superior play'd, 
To int'rest, prudence ; and to flatt'ry, pride. 
Here beauty falls betray 7 d, despis'd, distrest ; 
And hissing infamy proclaims the rest. 

Where then shall hope and fear their objects find ? 
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ? 
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
Roll darkling down tne torrent of his fate ? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ' 
Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain 
Which Heav'n may hear ; nor deem religion vain. 
Still raise for good the supplicating voice ; 
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. 
Safe in his pow'r, whose ej'es discern afar 
The secret ambush of a specious prayV, 



C&ap, 5. Promiscuous Pieces. 

Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, 

Secure whatever he gives, he gives the best. 

Yet when the sense of Sacred Presence fires, 

And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 

Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, 

Obedient passions, and a will resign'd; 

For love, which scarce collective man can fill ; 

For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ; 

For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, 

Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat : 

These goods for man the laws of Heav'n ordain, 

These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain ; 

*Yith these celestial wisdom calms the mind, 

And makes the happiness she does not find. 

DR. JOHN80K. 



Coatsini&gr B-iegv^p^ne&I* Sfcetchtes of the authors T&€z&i6&t$ in? &M " $S 
trod ucti ca te the English Ile;i4er," " The- Eaglish- Reader" itself, artfi 
the u 'Secfctfe$ t& the Ikead**." Wifely e«eu«k>»3«*A stri«fcurw os- iihsir 
T^rilaagsv 

ADfcTSO^, J*o*cp&y-*one' of the most C3?teB*&le£ man ia i£%$fe£ 
literature, was born in the y$ar 1672. i^fter receiving' the ''rudiv 
merits of his education at different sehoote, he was admitted iiitkS 
Queenfe €olfeg , e, Obtfordv Ib> 1 69% he took Us octree of Master of 
Artsy- and? was eminent for bis Lath* poetry.- $?a d^Sti^uished hunt 
self hj severM' small? pieces ; and in 1 : S6S ? , orftamed 5 frnn* king Wiiv 
liam a? pension' of 3001. ye'ar, to enable hirri- $& travels lie went 
leisu^el** titott^i France and Italy, improving- his mind to the best 
adVfeiitege';' as ^T?ears f}'ehi' his "letter to* Lord Halifax," esteem* 
ed the MoS elegant- e-f Ms poeticsf per^^'ane^s"^ and- Ma- " Travel^ 
in Ifeufy/' 

His ee$etv'i®e$ * tf&teptiBgaft pr'6%$tf&i mift tie app^iiVtifrsat ef £ 
commissioner or appeal In 17<?'6 T fefe was made under secretary f4 ! 
the seer etbff ef state'; 1 ?Md i'n' 17^9*, tfe I^arqwis of Wharton being 
appointed Lord- LietitehaM*.- of I-relfec^ fkoia jfeddfeo* with him, a3 
his chief secretary, fej lfl&h'c'ma'i'i'i'ed the' cb'iJiteS? dowager of 
Warwick. l^h^maVnape neither fo#id abr M$&e the p&rties equal 5 : 
and Addison ; hag' te-4 btehind? him no enc^r^e^'eM- for ambitioteft 
love. In l'/l'f, he rose to hfe highest eleY'a'iioh, eteibgf Aiade secreS 
tary of state to- George- the' Firsty His insuperable diffidence, an<? 
his want of talent fbr p'c-bii ! 4'gp'8'?Mng, joined to his decliniog- health 5 , 
induced him soeh ! afterward? t*' scifeit his dismission from office.^ 
This was granted, with* a ; Deb&i'on* c? 13£0:ly a! jfefe-rv 

He bad for some time' beeb' affife^ with 1 a^rv j^mafie" disorder, 
which ended in the drcpS^v tie employed- i$!e leisure' of his closing 
life, in supporting those rehig?fc>«%- prmcipMs, which hari- a^companii. 
ed the whole ebiirse of it lie drew up'a ! " Jl>£lfeb£e of tfhb'€liristiasV 
Religion," which' was piSfclishfed 1 i#ato utrfrn^ned st*te after his death'. 
When all hopes' 6f prGlb^png--' life' we're sX an e^d-,- A\i3.'is"bh'- sent for 
a young man, n^Ky related' to; bite', (supposed to have been his step^' 
son the earl of Warv^ik^V s>£'d- gfr'ispiftgi his hand, said' to him witli' 
tender emphasis, /''See' m ! #hat peace a Christian can die." H&' 
expired in 1 719, iri the 48th year of his me. 

The writings of Addison are, chiefly, poetical 1 , critical a'nr! ! ifto"ra& 
He had a large share in the Tatler, Spectator, Guardiah', atid other 1 
periodical works. His hymns are much admired fob their easej, 
elegance, and harmony, as well as for the cheerful and correct 
strain of piety that pervades them. " The Spectator" stands at tlie 
head of all publications of a similar kind. With the happier coin* 
biuation of seriousness and ridicule, these papers discuss the snmllet 



«»« ■c£sim& ; Ohe decencies ; @f life, .elegance a&tfl justness of 'taste, tfca 
<eeg * lation -of temper, and the ;h$provement .of domestic society. la 
some of the!©/ Addison taJkes £he higher tone '.©fa religious monitor. 
All the enehaj^t-jn.asts.of fancy, aadiall t^esccgencyvof argument, are 
employed to (necojaatiRejid to ike reader Ma real interest, the care of 
.pleasing the Jb-Mth.ar.of ibis feeing. His papers in "The Spectator," 
are marked by some .ane ; ©f the letters composing clio. The popu- 
ilarity of this work rose to such a beig'm:, that, in a much less reading 
age than the present, im&nity tkQVjscmd .of the papers wsre sometimes 
sold in a day. 

Asa poet, A&W-s&n dta'htcs a 'high praise, tiihosig'h ®M the highest. 
Oeneraliy elegant, -sometimes strohg, and frequently ingenious, lie 
has but little of that vivid for.ee and sublime conception, which cha- 
racterize a poet of the §kM ic&nk -.: ik$>r has he that fine polish and daz- 
zling brilliance, which give a title toaaa exalted place, in the second. 
Jt is from his own original veiB of humour, snd-.©f 'ingeaio.u* inven- 
tion, displayed in his periodical works, that Addison derives his high- 
est and most durable literacy £&me. As a model of English prose, 
feis writings merit the greatest praise. •" Whoever.," says Dr. .John*, 
son, " wishes to attain an English style, familiar hut not coarse, and 
•elegant but not ostentatious, must give his .days .and nights .to ifie 
volumes of Addison.* 

Akenside, Mark,— -an E-ng ; Ks!a poet and plrj^cian, was feomal 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, in 3. 721. Mk father was a substantial ibutcls- 
er, who gave his son a liberal education, intending to q.ualify him 
for the office of a dissenting minister. The son, however, preferred 
the study of pbysic, and in 1744 took the degree of Doctor. 

In this year appeared his capital poem, u On the Pleasures -of ti\& 
Imagination ;* which was received with gincat applause, -.and at once 
raised the author to poetical fame. In 1745, h.e published ten odes, 
on different subjects, and in a style and manner mucth..<di versified.— 
These works characterised him as a zealous votary .of Grecian phi* 
tlosophy, and ^classical literature, and .am ardent lover of liberty. 

Re wrote several medical treatises, which increased his practice 
Mid reputation. Bnt it is said he had a haughtiness, and ostenta- 
tion of mamaer, wHaich were not =caloi dated to ingratiate him with his 
■brethren of the faculty, or to rentier him generally scceptaible. lie 
Sied of a putrid fever, in 1770, in the 49£h year ^ his age. 

The rank which Akenside holds a-mang the English ^classics, is 

frincipalty owing to his didactic poem, on the " PHeasares of the 
magkiatiun, 9 '' a work finished at three-and-twenty, a»d which his 
Subsequent performances aaever equalled. Its foundation is the ele- 
;gant, and even poetical papers, on the same subject, by Addison, w 
the Spectator ; feut -he-hasso expanded .the pi&n, and enriched the 
/Lhastrations from the stores m philosophy a&d poetry, that it would 
be injurious to deny Mm the ..claim of an original writer. No poem 
of so elevated and abstracted a kind was ever so popular, it is 
thought by some persons of fine taste, to be the most beautiful di- 
dactic poem that ever adorned the Enrlish language. 

ArmstbqjsGci, .J^ohri, — a paat aad phy^ei&n, was iboriQ m .Se&tib&dL 



APPENDIX. 

about the year 1709. He studied in the university of Editfourgh 
and took his degree with reputation, in 1732. He settled in Loiv 
don, where he appeared in the double capacity of author and physi- 
cian : but his success in the former, as has frequently been the case, 
seems to have impeded his progress in the latter. He wrote several 
email pieces, both in prose and verse. But his reputation, as a poet, 
fe almost solely founded on his " Art of preserving Health ;" for his 
other pieces scarcely rise above mediocrity. This may well rank 
among the first didactic poems in the English language. Though 
that class of poetry is not of the highest order, yet the variety inci- 
dent to his subject, has given him the opportunity of displaying his 
powers on some of the most elevated and interesting topics ; and they 
are found fully adequate to the occasion. The work is adopted into 
the body of English classics, and has often been printed, both sepa. 
rately and in collections. 

His last publication was a pamphlet entitled " Medical Essays ; 
in which he complains of his literary critics. He died in 1 779, leav- 
ing considerable savings from a very moderate income. 

Beattie, James, — a philosopher and poet, was born in Scotland, 
in the year 1735* After the requisite preliminary acquisitions in his 
neighbourhood, he repaired to New Aberdeen, and went through a 
regular course of study in the university established there. His first 
publication was a volume of " Original Poems and Translations,* 
which appeared in 1 760. The *' Judgment of Paris," was published 
in 1765. These poetical effusions, especially the beautiful piece 
called, " The Hermit," obtained for him great applause. 

This very distinguished writer occupied, in early life, the humble 
station of an usher in a grammar school. Whilst in that situation, 
he wrote his celebrated work, entitled the " Minstrel ; or the Fro- 
gress of Genius ;" part of which appeared in 1771. The elegance 
and feeling which characterize this poem, cause regret that it wai 
never finished, according to the author's views. His merit became so 
conspicuous that the magistrates of New Aberdeen elected the as. 
sistant of their grammar school, to the honourable and distinguishes 1 
office of Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in their University 

Not long after this event, he published an " Essay on the Immu- 
tability of Truth in Opposition to Sophistry and Scepticism." This 
work demonstrated him to be an anxious promoter of the best inte- 
rests of mankind ; a judicious philosopher ; and a pertinent and capti- 
vating reasoner. It extended his reputation, and enlarged the circle 
of h»s friends : amongst whom may be reckoned Dr. Gregory of 
Edinburgh, the earl of Mansfield, Dr. Johnson, Lord Lyttleton, and 
doctors Hurd and Porteus, the bishops of Worcester and London. 

In 1783, he published " Dissertations Moral and Critical," in one 
volume quarto and in 1786, by the recommendation of the present 
bishop of London, " Evidences of the Christian Religion," in two 
email volumes. In 1790 and 1793, appeared "The Elements of 
Moral Science," in two volumes octavo. All these works display 
good sense, extensive knowledge, and able reasoning. Dr. Beat* 
fcs'e ill state of health disqualified him, for some time before his deatlv, 



fer per&raadaBg She duties of his office in the saaiversaty. He died IB 
1S03, in the -68 th year of his age. 

Dr. Beattie possessed a vigorous undei*standing and a most bene 
folenfc heart. His talents were improved to a high degree, by al 
•aost every species atf science asH (literate re. He had deeply studi- 
ed- the evidence «©aa which the tra&i of Christianity rests; and the 
s^&sult was, am Uaaskatoefi persuasion of its Ddvme original. This in- 
3j iced; him to labour zealously to convince ©tJheffs of what he himself 
♦j firmly believed, and so highly appreciated. 

His poetical talents were very considerable ; and bad he eontinm- 
ed to cultivate t&em, m advanced life, he woiild probably have at. 
■iained still higgler celebrity, ©at there is reason to suppose that fee 
«ong neglected the momntaiia of " 0!ympias w for the bill of" Zion, 1 * 
and was more anxiosas to -attain tlie character of aeiaaistian hero^ 
than that of i^e greatest of -modern bards. 

Berklev, Oeonge, — the celebrated bishop of Cioysae, was bona 
«a Ireland, in 16$4. He possessed a most cosiraprehensive and acute 
•mind, which received all the aids of odoJcataoK- His first essays as 
& writer were published in the Spectator and Onardian ; which en- 
tertaining works he adorned with many pieces in favour of virtue 
and religion. He published several veiy ingenious treatises on phi- 
fosophical subjects ; the inaost celebrated of which is his ** Minute 
Philosopher," 

He -conceived a moMe aaad benevolent plan for converting the 
tavage Araaoricams to Christianity, by a college to be erected in the 
Summer Istasads, otherwise called the Isles of Bermuda. Bzxt the de- 
sign, after several years Habosar to accomplish, it, was frustrated by 
Ifee ignorance or miscondhact of those on wiiaom he depended for sup- 
port. He died, swddedly, an 1753, at Oxford; and was boaried i^ 
Christ Chare-h, where there is a monwiinesat erected to kis memory. 

His morality, rdfigioaa, maianers, and disposition, were equal to 
tris extraordinary abilities. Pope, by whom fee was well known, 
«@ms np his character in one fee. After mentioning- some parties- 
twr virtues, w'kick cfearacteri&ed other prelates then living, 1» 
ascribes 

**'T<© S&erMasy evVy virt«« wrc&er d8«3Si^ T «32> ,w 

Bi,air, Hubert, — a ScottisSa divine and poet, was bens about £ae 
fcegmning of 1fee eigfeteentfe centra ry. He had a very liberal educa- 
tion in the University of Edasaferargfe ; and was afterwards sent abroad 
ky his fafeer, fer improvement, a»d spes&t .eossse tame osa the cont* 
cent. After undergoing the wsual trials appointed fey the chnrcil 
<sf Scotland, fee was ordained minister of Athctstaraeford, m tke conn. 
iy of East Lothian, iaa 12-31, wfoere fee passed ifee sres^Eaindei* of his 
life. 

As his fortune was easy, fee i<«red •% ery Rwncfe. iaa ffee styie of a gex»- 
llemara, and wasgreatSy respected by all persons of "character ia the 
Reigfebonrhood, He was ©ot oaaly a man of iearnin-g, butt of ekgatist 
teste and Tnamwrs. As a poet be is entitled to considerable distino- 
B^t lis feig5iest praise is, tSaat l^o was a mara of sincere niety; 
S2 



S3u> Aprntamx 

and very assiduous in discharging- the duties of his clerical function 
As a preacher, he was serious and warm, and discovered the imagf 
nation of a poet. He died of a fever in 1746, in the 47th year of hit 
age. 

His poem entitled " The Grave," is his greatest work, and amply 
establishes his fame. It is a production of real genius, and possesses 
a merit equal to many pieces of the first celebrity. It is composed 
of a succession of unconnected descriptions, and of reflections that 
seem independent of one auother, interwoven with striking- allusions, 
and digressive sallies of imagination. Whatever subject is eithei 
discussed or aimed at, the poet always endeavours to melt the heart 
and alarm the conscience, by pathetic description and serious re- 
monstrances ; and his sentiments are delivered in a novel and ener 
getic manner, that impresses them strongly on the mind. He is always 
moral, yet never dull ; and though he often expands an image, yet 
he never weakens its force. If the same thought occurs, he gives 
k a new form ; and is copious without being tiresome. He writes 
under the strong impression of christian and moral truths. Convic* 
tion gives force to imagination ; and he dips his pen in the stream 
which religion has opened in his own bosom. 

Blair, Dr. Hugh, — was born in Edinburgh, in the year 1718 • 
After the usual grammatical course c: school, he entered the Humam. 
ty Class in the University of Edinbuigh ; and spent eleven years at 
that celebrated seminary, assiduously employed in literary and scien* 
tific studies. He was ordained as a minister in 1742 ; and cormneno 
ed his public lne with highly favourable prospects. Besides the tes- 
timony given to his talents and virtues, by successive ecclesiastic 
promotions, the University of St. Andrews, in 1757, conferred on 
him the degree of D. D. a literary honour which, at that time, was 
very rare in Scotland. In 1 762, the king erected and endowed a 
professorship of Rhetoric and Belles Letters, in the University of 
Edinburgh ; and appointed Dr. Blair, " in consideration of his ap« 
proved qualifications," Regius Professor, with a suitable salary.— 
His lectures were well attended, and received with great applause 
In 1 783, when he retired from the labours of the office, he published 
bis Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Letters ; and the general voic* 
•f the public has pronounced them to be a most judicious, elegant, 
and comprehensive system of rules, for foj ming the style, and culti- 
vating the taste of youth. 

It was long before he could be induced to favour the world with 
the publication of his discourses from the pulpit. These elegant 
compositions experienced a degree of success, of which few publi- 
cations can boast. They are universally admitted to be models ii 
their kind ; and they will long remain durable monuments of the 
piety, the genius, and sound judgment of their author. They circu- 
lated rapidly and widely, wherever the English tongue extends ; and 
tftey were soon translated into almost all the languages of Europe.— 
The king thDught them worthy of a public reward ; and conferred 
on their author a pension of 2001. a year, which continued unaltei • 
d tiil his death. 



APPENDIX. ftl't 

In 1748 he married an excellent woman, possessed of great sens* 
and merit. By her he had a son who died in infancy ; and a daugh- 
ter who lived to her twenty-first year, the joy of her parents, and 
adorned with all the accomplishments that become her age and seat. 
He lost his wife a few years before his death, after she had, with the 
tenderest affection, shared in all his fortunes, and contributed near 
half a century to his comfort and happiness. 

His last summer was devoted to the preparation of the fifth volume 
of his sermons ; and, in the course of it, he exhibited a vigour of un- 
derstanding, and capacity of exertion, equal to the powers of his 
best days. But the seeds of a mortal disease were lurking unper- 
ceived within him. At the close of the year 1 800, he felt that he was 
approaching the end of his course. lie, however, retained to the 
last moment the full possession of his mental faculties ; and expired 
with the composure and hope which become a christian pastor. 

" Dr. Blair was the perfect image of that meekness, simplicity, 
gentleness, and contentment, which his writings recommended. He 
was eminently distinguished through life, by the prudence, purity, and 
dignified propriety of his conduct. His mind, by constitution and 
culture, was admirably formed for enjoying happiness. Well balanc- 
ed in itself, by the nice proportion and adjustment of its faculties, it 
did not incline him to any of those eccentricities, either of opinion 
or of action, which are too often the lot of genius. He was long 
happy in his domestic relations; and, though doomed at last to feel, 
through their loss in succession, the heaviest strokes of affliction ; 
yet his mind, fortified by religious habits, and buoyed up by his na- 
tive tendency to contentment, sustained itself on Divine Providence, 
and enabled him to persevere to the end, in the active and cheerful 
discharge of the duties of his station ; preparing for the world the 
blessings of elegant instruction ; tendering to the mourner the les- 
scns of Divine consolation ; guiding the young by his counsels ; aid- 
ing the meritorious with his influence ; and supporting, by his voice 
and by his conduct, the best interests of his country." 

Carter, Elizabeth,— was born in the year 1718. She very ear- 
ly in life discovered the superior cultivation, which her mind had 
recived from the superintendence of a sensible, learned, and worthy 
parent. She was so well versed in the Latin and Greek languages, 
and so well qualified to teach them, that she gave to her only bro- 
ther Henry his classical education, before he went to Canterbury 
fchool. 

In 1758 she translated from the original Greek, all the works of 
f^p* *etus which are now extant ; to which she added an Introduc- 
f Ton and many critical Notes. The learning and ability which she 
displayed in the execution of this work, are well known ; and they 
liave received very high applause. This performance may justly be 
said to do honour to her sex, as well as to herself. 

In 1762 she published a volume of miscellaneous Poems. They 
were celebrated among the verses of lord Lyttelton, who had read 
them in manuscript. The merit and beauty of these compositions 



£4$ .JlSPPEKDOG. 

feave been highly applauded. .Simpl*ci£y of sentiment, sweetness of 
expression, aad morality the most amiable, grace every page. 

She was -also the contraTwater of two Papers to " The Rambler, 1 * 
which were much esteemed by Dr. Johnson. The one is aa allego- 
ry, in which Reh'gioa and Superstition are delineated in a masterly 
manner^ aad the other an ingenious ironical letter on modish plea- 
©ares, bearing- the signature of Ghariessou 

This excellent woman was greadjy respected for her superior un- 
derstanding, extensive knowledge scientific and familiar, from the 
highest researches in philosophy to the most common useful acquire- 
ments. Though she possessed masculine pow ers of mind, she wag 
invested with such innate modesty, that her eminent attainments 
never intruded into company. Her heart was susceptible of the 
keenest sensibility to all the distresses of the afflicted ; and her mind 
piously resigned to meet with fortitude the changes aad chances of 
life. Her firm faith in the Christian religion strengthened in her the 
performance of every duty: and it may be truly said, that with all 
her very rare endowments, goodness of heart, mildness of temper, 
and suavity of manners, were eminently conspicuous. This amiable 
and distinguished person died in tike year i-SOtf, at the advanced age 
©f eighty-eight years. 

Cicero, Marcus Tuliius, — an illustrious Roman orator and phi. 
fosopher, was born 105 years before the Christian era. Whether 
we consider him as ah orator, a statesman, or a philosopher, he ap- 
pears to have been one of the greatest men of antiquity. Aftei hav- 
ing served his country, in an eminent degree, he was assassinated by 
the orders of Antony, his inveterate enemy. He was distinguished 
fey great powers of mind, which were cultivated to the highest pitch- 
He had many virtues; but they were obscured by an excessive vani- 
ty, which can be palliated bat little fey the principles and the man- 
ners of the age in which he lived. 

His dialogues on G8J Age, aad on Friendship, are extremely eJ^ 
£ant aad agreeable pieces of moral writing ; and his Orations are 
perfect models, m that species of com position. 

Cot-tost, Nathaniel, — Of his family, birth-place, and education, 
there are no written memorials. He was bred to the profession of 
physic, in which he took the degree of doctor. He settled as a phy- 
sician at St. Albans, ia Hertfordshire, where he acquired great re- 
putation in his profession, and continued to reside till his death. la 
fee latter part of his life, he kept a house for ike reception of lunatics. 

In 1751 , he published his " Visions in verse, for the Entertainment 
and Instruction of Younger Minds." This publication was favourably 
received by the police ^jrA religious world. His " Visions" are the 
^tsaost popular of his productions, and not inferior to the best compo- 
sitions, of that nature, in the English language. His " Fables* 
approach the manner of Cca^ ; but they have less poignancy of 
satire, 

Of his miscellaneous poeyas,'" The Fire Side," is the most agreea. 
tfle. The subject is universally interesting; the sentiment* art 
ftetting and pathetic; and the versification elegant and harmed 



APPENDIX 2! 3 

ens. The verses " To a Child five years old," are exquisitely beau. 
tiful The " Ode on the New Year," is pious, animated, and poeti- 
cal. His lighter pieces are not deficient in ease and sprighthness, 
and may be read with pleasure. 

Cotton died at St. Albans in 1788, and in an advanced age. His 
moi al and intellectual character appears to have been, in a high de- 
gree, amiable and respectable. His writings are distinguished by 
strong marks of piety, learning, taste, and benevolence. As a poet, 
his compositions are marked by a refined elegance of sentiment, and 
a correspondent simplicity of expression. He writes with ease and 
correctness, frequently with elevation and spirit. His thoughts are 
just and pure. As piety predominated in his mind, it is diffused 
over his compositions. Under his direction, poetry may be truly 
said to be subservient to religious and moral instruction. Every 
reader will regard, with veneration, the wiiter who condescended 
to lay aside the scholar and the philosopher, to compose moral apolo 
gies, and little poems of devotion, " for the entertainment and in 
struction of younger minds." 

Cowper, William, — an English poet of great celebrity, was born 
at Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, in the year 1731. In his infan- 
cy he was extremely delicate ; and his constitution discovered, at a 
very early season, that morbid tendency to diffidence, melancholy, 
and despair, which produced, as he advanced in years, periodical fitb 
of the most deplorable depression. He was educated at Westmin- 
ster school, where his natural timidity was increased, by the arro- 
gant and boisterous behaviour of some of his school-fellows. " I was," 
said he, " so dispirited by them, that I did not dare to raise my eyes 
above the shoe-buckles of the elder boys." 

He was removed from school to the office of an attorney, from 
whence, after three years, he settled himself in chambers of the In- 
ner-Temple, as a regular student of law, where he resided to the 
age of thirty-three. But this profession did not suit his diffidence, 
his love of retirement, or his poetical genius. " I rambled," said 
he, " from the thorny road of my austere patroness, jurisprudence, 
into the primrose paths of literature and poetry." Cowper was ap- 
pointed Clerk of the Journals of the House of Lords ; and a parlia- 
mentary dispute making it necessary for him to appear at the bar of 
the house, his terrors on this occasion rose to so astonishing a height, 
that they overwhelmed his reason : he was obliged to relinquish a 
Station so formidable to his singular sensibility. 
- In a few months, his mind became tranquil and clear ; and resolv- 
ing to abandon all thoughts of a laborious profession, and all inter- 
course with tlie busy world, he settled, in 1 765, in the town of Hun- 
tingdon. Here commenced his acquaintance with a respectable 
clergyman, and his amiable wife, who resided in that town : their 
name was Unwin. About two years afterwards, the husband died ; 
and from that period, during the course of near thirty years, this 
excellent woman was a most distinguished friend and guardian of 
Cowper. Of her piety and virtue, and her eminent, invariable 
kindness to him, he has left many affectionate and grateful memo* 



tsails. Ib the l&p&e of tke-se 3".ears, be was several tkses -oppressed 
frith derangement of mind, which was extremely distressing- to big 
friends, who entertained for him the pmrmi sentiments -of esteem- and 
regard. During his lucid intervais, ^%ieib«-©utinued several years, 
iie was perfectly hdmseilf:; .and exhibited, in Ins writings, the most 
unequivocal proofs of it. His gratitude to the Supreme Being, for 
the mercies and deliverance he shad experienced, was fervent and 
exemplary ; and -his life w as oUstrngvuisked by every correspondent 
virtue. 

Cowper wrote a noamfeer of ilifctsLe poems, which are marked witih 
fine trails of the pathetic and descriptive;; and which show the ex- 
quisite delicac}* of his fe.eEng's, and the goodness of his heart. His 
" Task," which was published in 178.5, placed him in the first rank 
of English poets. This work is fii&etf characterized by Hayley, hi* 
biographer, "The Task,* 5 says fee-, -"may be called a bird's-eye vie* 
of buman life. It is a minute and extensive survey of every thim 
most interesting to the reason, to the fancy, -and to the affections of 
man. It exhibits bis pleasures, and his pains ; his pastimes, said his 
business ; his folly, assd bis wisdom ; bis dangers, and his duties; all 
with such exquisite facility, and force of expression, with such grace 
and dignity of sentiment, that rational beisugs, who wish to render 
themselves more amiable, and mom Sappy, ean hardiy be more ad- 
vantageously employed, than in the frequent perusal of the " Task. 1 * 
in 1791 appeared his "Translation of the Iliad and Odyssey of 
Homer, in Mask Verse..'" This work, from first to last, gave Cow- 
per ten years of useful and pleasing- employment; It has considera- 
ble merit; particularly laa its near approach to that sweet majestic 
simplicity, which forms one of tike m,mt attractive features in the 
great prince and father of poets. 

The inquietude and darkness of Co-wper's latter years, were ter- 
minated by a most gentle and tranquil dissolution. He died in th« 
year 1800. — We shall close this sketch of him, with a striking" eulo- 
gium made by bis biographer on dais" character and writing's : " The 
more the works of Cowi*er are read, the -more his readers will find 
reason to admire the variety, and the extent, the graces, and tha 
energy, of his 'literary talents- The un i versa! admiration excited by 
these, will be heightened and endeared, to the friends of virtue, by 
the obvious reflection, that Ms writings, excellent as they appear> 
were excelled by the gentleness, the benevolence, and the sanctity 
of his life." 

• CuNNirr-GHA-M, John, — was feora in Dublin, an 172=9- He receiv- 
ed his education at the grammar school of Drogheda ; and early be* 
g3n to exhibit specimens of -his poetical powers. Has passion for th© 
stage induced him to engage, wfeen young, in the profession of ait 
fee tor; and he continued in it, wife little Tai'iation, till his death. 

In 1762, he published "An Elegy on a Pile of Ruins;" which 
tras read with pleasure, even after Gray's " Elegy in a Country 
Church Yard j* of which it is an obvious imitation. He wrote also 
**T&e CojQLtaroplatasi, a Nag-hi Piece ; w "Fortunae, an Apologise ;* 



"*t^§rf,- & Tsstcx'&i if$wA$ and feWf ether sma$ pieces- 1£ p*j£tr*: 
eH of them eyfiaee eo-Eskter a»Me powers of description. 

After lin^erim? softie- ti*#<e i*'b^f # ®ervoi*s disorder, duri??g vy-M-el* 
he burnt ail his papers,- Jlws' dfeeH to 1 "L'1'13,- in the' 44>th< year of his age, 

CuRTitJs, Qwi^tu's-, — a .L^Mii-fti I's^sSyriaF.;, wlio- Wrote the life ©£Ale2» 
gnder the Great, is on$y IMtewn by t-his- worfe. Me is si*pposed, by 
his style, to have lived in or near the' Augustan age; His work is 
!ihe most en^rtai>siag. ac&ount \?s possess of fcfes actions of Alex- 
ander.- 

jl/odi>', Wiil^-ffl'/*^.* Sngi'ish cnVinS",- was b or & m Lincolnshire; is 
2^29. lie was 3j celebrated and popular preacher in the metropo 
!$s ; where he was- remarkable for his zeal is promoting ehari tabid 
institution's,- par tic "Marly the MageMen hospital; of which he became 
jjjTeacher.- Me was a cMssic'&lj sch^l-a-r, • an$ possessed considerable 
abilities. $2 is writing sfre nu^nero-is-, aa^J some' of them, not only 
well written; h-u-'t y'seMv Tfhe popularity whi€a he acquired mad£ 
him vsin, and his vanity Ikxi Mm' into 1 ex-penses, # which an opulent! 
8jt tune would ha^e been i^nen^-a^ E?s became involved in debts 
Which be c'o**M ne* discharge ;; a ; nd ivas tempted at length to cob*. 
mit forgery, by wMch : ht forfeited Ms life. He" was committed fey 
prison, tirk^'y convicted; a*nd executed* M '1^yb\*rny in f?1f, . 

He died with all 1 the ma?r& : s of the deepest remorse, for the fol&Nss 
£nd vices of which he %:•%$ seen g'uiity ;- and with expressions of th& 
saost fei^M" regret for" the se'andy which, by Ms Conduct, he had? 
brought on Ms pro&ssib&,< ai&vi; on the religion ef which he had oMciS. 
rfted as a rnin'feiisiV 

His " Thoughts IS Prison,"' which were published afier his deatS; 
Contain much admonitory matter, and have passed through mim^- 
i*cus ed.'kie'ns, 1 IJ.vs" "'.Jteflesti'ons en ; Death" have also been much 

fe'adv __ ( . 

DopbiifD^s, jt > hiiip r '^an eminent English non-conformist diving 
#as born in London, in the year lt02. He was a fine classics! 
tfeholar, and had a' mind adorned' lf$k a rich variety of knowledge, 
^t Northampton, he l^epf an ; acade£¥* c4 distinguished reputation, 
during the twenty 4wo;y ears >. i ! n which} &$' ^■stai^ed Hhe oMce of tii. 
tor, he had about two hundred yc^'rf men' 4¥idei*' Ms care, of wnc^D 
cne hundred and twenty etygtiged in th^e ministry. i£t Northamp. 
ton, he laboured with' g:*eat assiduiiiy, s's a minister and instructer, 
Admired and esteemed,- by meh of every pefsnasion, for the extent 
of his learning, the amiabiertess of his manners'^ and the piety of his 
life. This excellent man died in f 75 f, a* Listen', whither he bad 
^one with Cite hope of Recovering his htea'lfn. 

His wor^eiitiaed "The Bise and Progress of Religion in the Soul, 
&C." wSs w'a'rmlly applauded b*y persons em^'ent fer rank, learning 
and piety, in CVe est'ab?ish'ed cT.urcn-, as weii as by tli'e dissenters; 
and soon went through inaiiy editions, not only in this country, bul 
!t» America, and on the continent of i>-«rope. His "Family Ex 
positor," in 6 vols, octavo, is his grand work. It possesses great 
merit, sXVd has been very useful in pronging the cause of piety an<l 
rfmraV felife of Cc-]/ James GardinO is- draw ffiVp with' tic war^S 



t!6 APPENDIX. 

feelings of friendship. It is, however, a valuable performance, rind 
well calculated to recommend religion and goodness. Besides these 
works, he wrote many treatises, all designed to explain or enforce 
the doctrines and precepts of the Gospel. 

We shall conclude this sketch, with the testimony of Dr. Kippis, 
who says, " Dr. Doddridge was not only a great man, but one of 
the most excellent and useful christians, and christian ministers, that 
ever existed." 

Dyer, John, — an English poet, was born in Wales, in the year 
1700. He received his early education in the country, and finished 
his studies at Westminster school. His father intended him for the 
profession of the Jaw : but painting and poetry were his most agreea- 
ble studies. He travelled into Italy for improvement ; and at Rome 
formed the plan of his poem called " The Ruins of Rome ;" which he 
finished soon after his return, in 1740. 

A serious turn of mind, ill health, and the love of study, solitude, 
and reflection, inclined him to the church ; and he accordingly en- 
tered into orders. He was a very amiable and respectable man ; 
beloved by his friends for the sweetness and gentleness of his dispo- 
sition, and respected by the world, as a person of superior endow- 
ments. 

In 1757, he published his " Fleece :" but he did not long survive 
It. He died in 1758, in the 58th year of his age. 

Dr. Johnson says, that " Dyer's * Grongar Hill' is the happiest of 
his productions. It ^s not indeed very accurately written : but the 
scenes which it displays are so pleasing, the images which they raise 
so welcome to the mind, and the reflections of the writer so conso- 
nant to the general sense or experience of mankind, that when it k 
once read, it will be read again." 

Enfield, William, — an eminent dissenting minister, and an ele- 
gant writer, was born at Sudbury, in 1741. In 1763, he was or 
dained minister of a congregation at Liverpool, where he soon ob- 
tained notice as a pleasing preacher, and an amiable man in society. 
In 1770, he accepted an invitation to officiate as resident tutor, and 
lecturer in the belles Iettres, in the academy at Warrington ; and he 
fulfilled these offices for several years, with great diligence and re- 
putation. In 1785, he took the charge of the principal congrega- 
tion at Norwich ; where he continued usefully and honourably occu- 
pied, till his death, which happened in 1797. 

His publications are various : the chief of them are, an " Abridg- 
ment of Brucker's History of Philosophy," a work in which the 
tenets of the different sects of philosophers, are displayed with much 
elegance and perspicuity ; " Biographical Sermons on the principal 
Characters in the Old and New Testaments;" " Institutes of Na- 
tural Philosophy, theoretical and experimental ;" and a compilation 
called " The Speaker," a very popular school book. 

Fenelon, Francis de Salignac de la Motte, — archbishop of Cam- 
bray, one of the most excellent and distinguished persons of his time, 
was born of an ancient family in France, in the year 1661. He 
made a rapid progress in learning ; and being destined to the eccle* 



APPEND IY 217 

siastical profession, became a preacher as early as his 19th year. 
At the age of twenty-four, he entered intc orders, and exercised the 
most laborious offices of his ministry. His singular talents of pleas- 
ing and instructing, induced the king to nominate him chief of a 
mission for the conversion of heretics. This post he would not ac 
cept, but on condition that no other arms should be employed in tho 
work, than those of argument and charity. 

In 1689, he was appointed preceptor to the duke of Burgundy 
the heir apparent, and to Ms brothers. By his excellent lessons ol 
religion and morality, he so softened the harsh and haughty charac- 
ter of the duke of Burgundy, as to make him a model of all that 
could be wished, in the expected sovereign of a vast empire. His 
services were rewarded in 1695, with the splendid preferment of the 
Archbishopric of Cambray. 

His book entitled "An explication of the Maxims of the Saints 
concerning the interior life," gave considerable offence to the guar- 
dians of orthodoxy ; and his enemies procured it to be condemned 
by the Pope ; and obtained the banishment of the archbishop to his 
diocess. In this retreat, he united the characters of a nobleman and 
of a christian pastor. In the latter, nothing could surpass his sim- 
plicity of manners, his charity, his minute attention to all his duties, 
his fervent piety, united to indulgence and moderation. He fre- 
quently took walks round the environs of Cambray, entered the 
Cottages of the peasants, sat down with them, and administered con- 
solation and relief in their distresses. When the alarms of war had 
driven them from their habitations, he opened his house to them, and 
even served them at his table. The amiableness of his manners and 
character produced veneration even in the enemies of his country : 
for in the last war with Louis XIV. the duke of Marlborough, amidst 
the general devastation, expressly ordered the lands of Fenelon to be 
spared. 

This excellent man died in 1715. He expired in perfect tran- 
quillity, deeply lamented by all the inhabitants of the Low-countries, 
and especially by the flock committed to his charge. 

Besides other works, he wrote the following, " Dialogues on Elo- 
quence :" they contain the most solid principles on the art of persua- 
sion, of which he treats both like an orator and a philosopher.— 
" Telemachus," a highly popular work. Never were purer, more 
useful, and more elevated maxims of public and private conduct, 
offered to the heir of a monarchy. " A Treatise on the Education 
of Daughters ;" an excellent work. " Dialogues of the Dead."— 
,( A demonstration of the existence of God, by proofs drawn from 
Nature." " The most touching charm of Fenelon's works," says an 
eminent writer, " is the sensation of peace and repose, with which 
he inspires his reader. He is a friend who joins himself to us ; who 
sheds his soul into ours ; who tempers, and at least for a time, sus- 
pends our troubles and afflictions." 

Franklin, Benjamin, — a philosopher and statesman, of great ce- 
lebrity, was born at Boston, in New-England, in 1706. From the 
early indications of a disposition for literature, which he exhibited* 

T 



418 APPENDIX 

his father destined him for the church : but the expense of a large 
family prevented him from continuing- the education commenced for 
this purpose ; and, at the age of ten, he was taken home to be em. 
ployed in the offices of the family trade, which was that of a soap- 
boiler and tallow-chandler. He, however, soon after became an 
apprentice to an elder brother, who was a printer. In a short time 
t»e removed to Philadelphia, and engaged in the service of a printer, 
in that city. He contracted an acquaintance with several young 
men fond of reading ; in whose society he spent his evenings, and 
improved his taste. His strong powers of mind, joined to uncom- 
mon inaustry, furnished him with a large stock of useful knowledge, 
and rendered him highly respectable. He gradually passed through 
a variety of public employments, constantly gaining an accession of 
honour and esteem. His fame stood high both in the political and 
scientific world. He was sent as American ambassador to France; 
and in 1778, was successful in negociatmg an alliance with that coun- 
try. He also acted as one of the plenipotentiaries, in signing the 
treaty of peace with England in 1783. In 1785, he returned to 
America ; and received from his grateful countrymen the most ho- 
nourable proofs of their esteem and regard. His increasing infirmi- 
ties caused him, in 1788, to withdraw from all public business; and, 
in 1 790, he closed, in serenity and resignation, his active and useful 
life of eighty-four years. 

Dr. Franklin has been surpassed by few, if any, men, in that 
solid practical wisdom, which consists in pursuing valuable ends by 
the most appropriate means. His cool temper, and sound judgment, 
generally secured him from false views and erroneous expectations. 
In his speculations and pursuits, something beneficial was ever in 
contemplation. He justly says of himself, " I have always set a 
greater value on the character of a doer of good, than on any other 
kind of reputation." He possessed the rare talent of drawing use 
ful lessons from the commonest occurrences, which would have pass- 
ed unimproved by the generality of observers. 

He published several useful works, on electricity, meteorology, and 
mechanics : and since his death have appeared in two small volumes, 
his " Essays, humourous, moral, and literary -> ,: with his " Life," 
chiefly written by himself. 

Gay, John, — an eminent English poet, was born near Barnstaple, 
in Devonshire, in 1688. He received his education at the free- 
school at Barnstaple ; and was afterwards put apprentice to a silk- 
mercer. But after a few years of negligent attendance, he sepa* 
rated from his master, by agreement. He had a small fortune, 
which enabled him to apply to other views, and to indulge his incli- 
nation for the muses. In 1711, he gave to the public his " Rural 
Sports," inscribed to Pope, then a young poet of the same age with 
himself. This compliment, joined with the sweet unassuming tem- 
per of Gay, laid a foundation of mutual friendship, which death 
alone could dissolve. In 1712, he accepted an offer of residing with 
the dutchess of Monmouth, in quality of her secretary. The same 
year he produced the poem entitled " Trivia, or the Art of walking 



APPENDIX. 21 9 

the Streets of London." This piece was admired ; and is, indeed, 
vie of the most entertaining- of the class. In 1714, he published 
" The Shepherd's Week." The pictures which it contains of rural 
life, and its accompanying scenery, are natural and amusing ; and 
are intermixed with circumstances truly beautiful and touching.-- 
Gay was appointed secretary to the earl of Clarendon, in his embas 
sy to the court of Hanover. In 1726, he produced his " Fables," 
written professedly for the instruction of the Duke of Cumberland, 
and dedicated to that prince. These fables have great merit, and 
are almost universally read and admired. He wrote several drama, 
tic works, which added to his literary reputation. But his most 
popular performance of this kind has been justly accused of having 
a tendency to sap the foundations of all social morality : though it is 
highly credible, that Gay had no mischievous intentions in writing it 

Gay met with disappointments, which dejected his spirits and af 
fected his health. He however employed himself occasionally in 
composition, till the year 1732, when he died of an inflammation of 
the bowels, at the age of forty-four. 

The private character of Gay was that of easy good nature, and 
undesigning simplicity ; and he was much beloved by his friends — 
He possessed but little energy of mind ; and had too much indolen :e 
to support that independence, to which his principles inclined him. 

Gilpin, William, — a clergyman of great worth, was born in the 
year 1724. He first attracted public notice by his merit as a bio- 
grapher, in 1 753, when he published the life of his lineal ancestor, 
the celebrated Bernard Gilpin, commonly called " The Northern 
Apostle." He afterwards wrote the lives of Latimer, John Wicke- 
liffe, John Huss, Jerome of Prague, and Zisca. They are lively, 
well written, interesting pieces of Biography. His " Lectures oa 
the Church Catechism," have been much read and approved. He 
was author of several other publications, which do credit to his taste 
And abilities. His life corresponded with his writings. Few men 
nave left behind them a higher character for wisdom, piety, and vir- 
tue. He died in the eightieth year of his age. 

Goldsmith, Oliver, — a celebrated English writer, was born in 
Ireland, in the year 1731. He was the son of a clergyman, who 
gave him a literary education, and sent him, at an earty period, to 
Dublin college. Being designed for the medical profession, he re- 
moved to the university of Edinburgh, where he continued about 
three years. Unable to pay a debt which he had contracted there, 
he left Edinburgh clandestinely ; but he was arrested at Sunderland, 
and was indebted to the friendship of two fellow-collegians, for his 
release from confinement. Under these unfavourable auspices, he 
launched into the world ; and in spite of penury, resolved to gratify 
his curiosity by a European tour. Pie remained four years on the 
continent, travelling over the greater part of it, enjoying the scenes 
of nature, and studying the human passions. His learning and other 
attainments, procured him a hospitable reception at the monasteries ; 
and his German flute made him welcome to the peasants of Flanders 
and Germany," " Whenever I approached a peasant's house tt* 



220 APPENDIX 

wards nightfall," he used to say, " I played one of my most merry 
tunes ; and that generally procured me not only a lodging, but sub- 
sistence for the next day." 

On his return to England, he was in so narrow circumstances, that 
it was long before he could get employment in London, being re- 
jected by several apothecaries, to whom he offered himself as a jour- 
neyman. Some of his first employments were those of occupying a 
department in the Monthly Review, and writing periodical papers in 
the Public Ledger. For some years he exercised his pen in obscu- 
rity : but in 1765, he suddenly blazed out as a poet, in his " Travel- 
ler, or a Prospect of Society." Of this work, that great critic, Dr. 
Johnson, liberally and justly said, that " there had not been so fine a 
poem since Pope's time." The public were equally sensible of itf 
merit, and it conferred upon him great celebrity. His poetical fama 
reached its summit in 1 770, by the publication of " The Deserted 
Village," a charming poem, which was universally admired. It 
would not be easy to point out, in the whole compass of English poe 
try, pieces that are read with more delight, than " The Deserted 
Village," and " The Traveller." The elegance of the versification ; 
the force and splendour, yet simplicity, of the diction ; the happy 
mixture of animated sentiment with glowing description ; are calcu- 
lated to please equally the refined and the uncultivated taste. Be- 
sides other works, in prose, he wrote " A Roman History," " A His- 
tory of England," " A History of Greece," " A History of the 
Earth and Animated Nature," and H The Citizen of the World. " — 
These performances are both amusing and instructive. 

In the latter part of his life, he was afflicted with a despondence 
of mind, which brought on a low fever and great debility, under 
which he sunk in the year 1774. 

Doctor Goldsmith's general conduct demonstrated great want of 
prudence and self-command. He was rather admired for his genius, 
and beloved for his benevolence, than solidly esteemed. His literary 
character is compressed by Dr. Johnson in the following terms.— 
" Goldsmith was a man of such variety of powers, and such felicity 
of performance, that he always seemed to do best that which he was 
doing ; a man who had the art of being minute without tediousness, 
and general without confusion : whose language was copious without 
exuberance, exact, without constraint, and easy without weakness." 

Gray, Thomas, — an eminent English poet, was the son of a re- 
spectable citizen of London, and born in Cornhill, in the year 1716. 
He was educated at Eton school, and thence removed to St. Peter's 
College, Cambridge, in 1 734. He applied himself to the study of the 
law : but on an invitation from his friend, the celebrated Horace- 
Walpole, h3 accompanied him in his travels through France and 
Italy. Soon after his return to England, he went to reside at Cam- 
bridge ; and was seldom absent from college during the remainder of 
his life. Mason the poet was his intimate friend, and has proved 
himself faithful tt» his memory and just to his reputation, m the " Me- 
moirs of the Life and Writings of Gray." In 1768 Gray was ap- 
pointed professor o r modern history ; but his health declining, he was 



APPENDIX. 221 

never able to execute the duties of the appointment. He died oi 
the gout in the year 1771. 

He wrote several small pieces of poetry ; but that by which he it 
most distinguished, is, the " Elegy written in a Country Church 
Yard." This work is, perhaps, the first of the kind, in any language 
The subject is universally interesting ; the allegorical imagery is 
sublime ; and the natural description picturesque ; the sentiment ia 
mostly simple and pathetic ; and the versification has a melody, 
which has not often been attained, and cannot be surpassed. The 
" Ode on Spring," the " Ode to Adversity," and the " Ode on Eton 
College," possess the true spirit of poetry, and exquisite charms of 
Terse. 

Gray was a man of extensive learning. He was equally ac- 
quainted with the elegant and the profound parts of science ; and 
that not superficially, but thoroughly. He knew every branch of 
history, both natural and civil : he had read all the original histori- 
ans of England, France, and Italy ; and he was a great antiquarian. 
Criticism, metaphysics, morals, politics, made a principal part of his 
6tudy. Voyages and travels of all sorts were his favourite amuse- 
ments : and he had a fine taste in painting, prints, music, gardening, 
and architecture. He was, moreover, a man of good breeding, 
virtue, and humanity. 

Gregory, John, — professor of medicine in the University of Edin- 
burgh, was born at Aberdeen, in 1724. He received a very judi- 
cious education; and was extremely diligent in attending a variety 
of lectures connected with the medical profession. In 1752, he marri- 
ed Elizabeth, daughter of William Lord Forbes ; a young lady who, 
to the exterior endowments of great beauty and engaging manners, 
joined a very superior understanding, and an uncommon share of 
wit. During the whole period of their union, which was but nine 
years, he enjoyed the highest portion of domestic happiness. 

Dr. Gregory, soon after the death of his wife, and, as he himself 
•lays, " for the amusement of his solitary hours," employed himself in 
the composition cf that admirable tract, entitled, " A Father's Lega- 
cy to his daughters." This work is a most amiable display of the 
piety and goodness of his heart ; and his consummate knowledge of 
human nature and of the world. He published also, " A compara- 
tive View of the State of Man and other Animals." Besides his mo- 
ral writings, he wrote with great ability in the line of his profession. 
This excellent man died suddenly in the year 1773. 

Harris, James, — an English gentleman of very uncommon parte 
and learning, was born at Salisbury, in 1709. After his grammati- 
cal education, he was removed, in 1726, to Wadham College in Ox- 
ford, but took no degree. He, however, cultivated letters most at- 
tentively ; and in the theory and practice of music, he had few equals. 
In 1763, he was appointed one of the lords commissioners of the ad- 
miralty. In 1774, he was made secretary and comptroller to the 
queen ; which post he held till his death. He died in 1780, fcfttr S 
hess, which he bore with calmness and resignation. 
-*» *% ««u* mnthnr of several yaluabl« works, i , " 



tHZ Appendix. 

concerning Art ; Music, Painting, and Poetry ; and Happiness.* 
2. " Philosophical Arrangements." 3. " Philological Inquiries.* 
4. Hermes ; or, a Philosophical Inquiry concerning Universal Gram- 
mar. " Of this work bishop Lowth speaks very highly ; and adds, 
'* This is the most beautiful and perfect example of analysis, that ha» 
been exhibited since the days of Aristotle." 

Hawkesworth, John, — a celebrated English writer, was born in 
1715. He was brought up to a mechanical profession ; but possess 
ing a refined taste, and a lively imagination, he chose to devote him- 
eelf to literature. He resided some time at Bromley in Kent, where 
his wife kept a boarding-school. As an author his " Adventurer" is 
his capital work ; the merits of which it is said, procured him the de- 
gree of LL. D. from Herring, archbishop of Canterbury. He com- 
piled " A Narrative of the Discoveries in the South Seas ;" and it it 
said he received for it the enormous sum of six thousand pounds.— 
The performance did not however satisfy the public. The provinca 
of Hawkesworth was works of taste and elegance, where imagina. 
tion and the passions were to be affected ; not works of dry, cold, ac- 
curate narrative. 

He died in 1773 ; some say of chagrin from the ill reception of his 
•* Narrative :" for he was a man of the keenest sensibility, and ob- 
Boxious to all the evils of that unhappy temperament 

In the last number of " The Adventurer," are the following pa- 
thetic admonitions : " The hour is hasting, in which whatever praise 
or censure I have acquired, will be remembered with equal indiffer- 
ence. Time, who is impatient to date my last paper, will shortly 
moiilder, in the dust, the hand which is now writing it ; and still the 
breast that now throbs at the reflection. But let not this be read, 
as something that relates only to another : for a few years only can 
divide the eye that is now reading from the hand that has written." 

Hervey, James, — a pious and ingenious English divine, was born 
at Hardingstone, in Northamptonshire, in 1714. After he had receiv- 
ed his academical education at Northampton, he was removed to 
Lincoln College, Oxford, where he was distinguished for his classical 
attainments, and the seriousness of his deportment. He succeeded 
his father In the livings of Weston Favell and Collingtree ; and dili- 
gently pursued his studies, and the labours of the ministry, under 
the disadvantage of a weak constitution. 

In 1746 he published his "Meditations among the Tombs, and 
Reflections on a Flower Garden ;" and the following year appeared 
the " Contemplations on the Night and Starry Heavens ; and a 
Winter Piece." The sublime sentiments in these pieces, are con- 
veyed in a flowing and elegant style. The language has, however, 
been deemed too flowery and rather too elevated. These publica- 
tions have been much read, and have often cherished pious and 
grateful emotions towards the Author of all good. In 1755 came 
eat his " Theron and Aspasio ; or, a Series of Dialogues and betters 
on the most important Subjects." This work has had many admir- 
er*, and some opposers. The Dialogues are generally introduced 
with descriptions of some of the most delightful scenes of the creation 



APPENDIX. 523 

As his works had a great sale, his profits were large ; but he ap- 
plied the whole of them to charitable purposes. His charity was, 
indeed, very re markable. It was always his desire to die just even 
with the world, and to be, as he called it, his own executor. This 
truly good man died in the winter of 1758, leaving the little he pos- 
sessed, to purchase warm clothing for the poor in that severe season 

Home, Henry, lord Karnes, — an eminent Scottish lawyer, and au 
thor of many celebrated works on various subjects, was born in the 
year 1696. In early youth he was lively, and eager in the acquisi- 
tion of knowledge. He never attended a public school ; but waa 
instructed in the ancient and modern languages, as well as in seve- 
ral branches of the mathematics, by a private tutor, who continued 
to be his preceptor for many years. 

He was long an ornament to the Scottish Bar ; and in 1752, waa 
advanced to the bench, as one of the judges of the court of session, 
under the title of lord Karnes. 

He wrote several tracts respecting law and equity, which exhibit 
marks of great penetration anJ profound knowledge. .Several of his 
publications also show that he was distinguished forhislaste in polite 
literature. It is observed by a late celebrated author, that '^o read, 
write, and converse, in due proportions, is the business of a man of 
letters : and that he who hopes to look back hereafter with satisfac- 
tion upon past years, must learn to know the value of single minutes, 
and endeavour to let no particle of time fall useless to the ground." 
By practising these lessons, lord Kames rose to literary eminence, 
in opposition to all the obstacles which the tumult of public business 
could place in his way. — He died, honoured and regretted, in the 
year 1782, of debility resulting from extreme old age. 

Lord Karnes's "Elements of Criticism," 3 volumes octavo, show 
that the art of criticism is founded on the principles of human nature. 
It is not only a highly instructive, but an entertaining work. His 
" Sketches of the History of Man," contain much useful information, 
and are lively and interesting. 

Hooke, Nathaniel, celebrated for a " Roman History," extending 
from the foundation of the city to the ruin of the commonwealth, 
died in 1764, but the time of his birth cannot be ascertained By 
the recommendation of \.he earl of Chesterfield, Hooke was employ- 
ed by the dutchess of Marlborough to digest " An account of the con- 
duct of the dowager-dutchess of Marlborough, from her first coming 
to court to the year 1710." He executed this work in so masterly 
a manner, and so much to the satisfaction of the dutchess, that she 
complimented the author with a present of five thousand pounds. 

In 1723 he translated from the French, " A History of the late 
Archbishop of Cambray ." and soon aftei published a translation of 
Ramsay's Travels of Cyrus. He was concerned in several other 
Works, which contributed to support his literary reputation ; and he 
long enjoyed the confidence and patronage of men, not less distin- 
guished by virtue than by titles. 

Horne, George, — bishop of Norwich, was born in 1730, at Otham, 
eear Maidstone, in Kent. At the age of fifteen he removed from 



S24 APPENDIX. 

Maidstone school to University College, Oxford. At college hi* 
studies were, in general, the same as those of other virtuous and in 
genious youths ; while the vivacity of his conversation, and the pro 
pnety of his conduct, endeared him to all whose regard was credita. 
ble. In 1753, he entered into orders, and was soon distinguished as 
an excellent preacher. He appeared also as an acute writer, par. 
ticularly in controversy. After several preferments and honours, he 
was appointed bishop of Norwich : but his infirmities were then very 
great. As he entered the palace, he said, " I am come to these 
steps at a time of life, when I can neither go up them nor down them 
with safety." He died at Bath, full of faith and hope, in the yeai 
1792. It seldom falls to the lot of the biographer, to record a mar-, 
so blameless in character and conduct as Bishop Home. Whateve* 
might be his peculiar opinions on some points, he was undoubtedly 
a sincere and exemplary christian. 

His writings are numerous and valuable. We shall only mention, 
** Considerations on the Life and Death of St John the Baptist ;* 
** A Commefitary on the Psalms ;" " Five volumes of Sermons on 
severatsubjec: i and occasions ;" " A Letter to Adam Smith, LL. D. 
on the Iiife, Death and Philosophy of David Hume ;" ** A Letter to 
Dr. Priestley, by an Under-graduate." 

Humk, David, — a celebrated philosopher and historian, was bora 
in Scotland, in the yea ' 1711. He possessed shining talents, which 
were greatly improved by education, study, and observation of the 
world. The desire of literary fame was his ruling passion : but hi? 
endeavours to accomplish this object, were, at first, and for a long 
time, unsuccessful. Even his history of Britain under the howse of 
Stuart, (which afterwards formed a part of his great work the His- 
tory of England;) was, on its first publication, almost universally 
decried. He felt this disappointment very keenly, and his spirit* 
were so much sunk by it, that he formed the resolution of retiring 
to France, changing his name, and bidding adieu to his own coun- 
try forever. But his design was frustrated, by the breaking out of 
the war of 1755, between France and England. 

He wrote several Treatises, of a moral, philosophical and political 
nature ; the merits of which have been variously appreciated. But 
the work for which he has been most deservedly celebrated, is the 
" History of England, &c." He may with great propriety, be styled 
a profound and elegant historian. We find, however, even in thit 
history, some scepticism on the subject of religion, and sentiments 
not friendly to Christianity. It is to be lamented that so fine a writer 
as Hume, whose works are so extensively circulated, had nol 
satisfied his mind of the truth of Christianity : and ranged himself 
among the advocates of a religion, which is completely adapted tt 
the condition of man in this life, and which opens to him the sublim* 
est views of happiness hereafter. 

Dr. Beattie, a zealous and enlightened philosopher and christian, 
on reviewing the philosophical writings of Hume, expresses his re- 
,|ret and surprise, in the following terms. " That he whose manners 
in private life are said to be so agreeable to many of his acquaint* 



APPENDIX. 229 

ance, should yet, in the public capacity of au author, have given so 
much cause of just offence to all the friends of virtue and mankind, 
is to me matter of astonishment and sorrow. That he, who succeeds 
so well in describing- the fates of nations, should yet have failed so 
egregious ly iu explaining the operations of the mind, is one of those 
incongruities in human genius, for which, perhaps, philosophy will 
never be able fully to account. That he who has so impartially 
slated the opposite pleas and principles of our political factions, 
should yet have adopted the most illiberal prejudices against natural 
and revealed religion ; that he, who on some occasions hath display 
e«i even a profound erudition, should, at other times, when intoxi 
cated with a favourite theory, have suffered affirmations to escape him, 
w hich would have fixed the opprobrious name of Sciolist on a less 
celebrated author ; and finally, that a moral philosopher, who seems 
tt > have exerted his utmost ingenuity in searching after paradoxes, 
should yet happen to light on none, but such as are all, without ex- 
ception, on the side of licentiousness and scepticism : these are in- 
consistencies perhaps equally inexplicable. His philosophy has done 
great harm. Its admirers I know are very numerous : but I have 
not yet met with one person, who both admired and understood it."* 

Hume was a man of mild dispositions, of command of temper, and 
.of an open, social, and cheerful humour; capable of attachment, b«t 
little susceptible of enmity, and ot great moderation in all his pas* 
sions. 

In the spring of 1 775, he was affected with a disorder in his bowels, 
which, though it gave him no alarm at first, proved incurable, and 
a t length mortal. It appears, however, that it was not painful, nor 
e^en troublesome or fatiguing. The natural evenness and tranquilli- 
ty of his temper, enabled him to bear the gradual decay of his bodily 
powers with remarkable comoosure. He died in the summer of 
1 776, and was interred at Edinburgh, where a monument was erect- 
ed to his memory. 

Jago, Richard, — an English poet, was born in Warwickshire in 
1 715. He was educated at University College, Oxford ; and enter 
el into orders, in 1737. The poet Shenstone was his particular 
fiiend, by whom he was introduced to persons of merit and distinc- 
tion. 

Whilst he was engaged in the duties of his profession as a country 
clergyman, which he performed with exemplar' diligence, he found 
leisure to indulge his early propensity to the study of poetry. His 
principal performance, is a descriptive poem, entitled " Edge-Hill.'" 
This piece ranks with the " Cooper's Hill," of Denham, the " Gron- 
gar Hill" of Dyer, and similar compositions of other writers, who 
bave proved their powers in loco-descriptive poetry. His elegies on 
t-ie "Black-birds," the "Goldfinches," and the "Swallows," are 
characterized by an amiable humanity, and tender simplicity of 

* Beattie's Essay on the immutability of Truth. The Preface. — See 
• Letter to Adam Smith, LL. D. on the Life, Death, and Philosophy o.f 
1 fcvid Hume. By Dr. Home, Bishop of Norwich. 



£26 APPENDIX. 

thought and expression, which justly entitle him to the exclusive d»* 
tinction of the " Poet of the Birds." 

As a descriptive poet, Jago evinces a picturesque imagination, a 
correct judgment, and a delicate taste, refined by a careful perusal 
of the ancient classics. His moral and intellectual character was 
truly amiable and respectable. 

After a short illness, he died in 1781, in the 66th year of his age. 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, — who has been styled the brightest orna- 
ment of the 18th century, was born at Lichfield in Staffordshire, in 
the year 1709, His father, who was a bookseller of some reputation, 
placed him at the free school of Lichfield. He early displayed strong 
marks of genius. Some of his school exercises, which have been 
accidentally preserved, justify the expectations which determined a 
father, not opulent, to continue him in the paths of literature. Be- 
fore he was fourteen j^ears old, his mind was disturbed by scruples 
of infidelity : but his studies and inquiries being honest, ended in 
conviction. He found that religion is true ; and what he had learned, 
he ever afterwards endeavoured to teach. Grotius's excellent book 
*' On the Truth of the Christian Religion," was very useful in re 
moving his doubts, and establishing his belief. 

In 1728, he was entered as a commoner at Pembroke College, Ox 
ford. Dr. Adam said of him, " that he was the best qualified younij 
man, that he ever remembered to have seen admitted." Here he pro- 
duced a fine Latin version of Pope's Messiah. Pope read the transla- 
tion, and returned it with this encomium ; " The writer of this poem 
will leave it a question, for posterity, whether his or mine be the 
original." From his father's insolvency, and the scantiness of his 
finances, he was obliged to leave Oxford before he had completed 
the usual studies, and without a degree. 

From the university, he returned to Lichfield, with little improve, 
tnent of his prospects ; and soon after engaged as usher in a school 
in Leicestershire. But being unkindly treated by the patron of the 
echool, he left it, after a feiv months, in disgust. In 1735 he married a 
widow of Birmingham, much older than himself, and not very engag- 
ing in pe, son or manners. She was possessed of 8001. ; which ena* 
bled him to fit up a house and open an academy. But this plan also 
failed for want of encouragement : he obtained only three scholars, 
one of whom was the celebrated David Garrick. In 1737 he settled 
in London, where, lor several years, he derived his principal em- 
ployment and support, by writing for the Gentleman's Magazine. 

In 1738, he published his " London," an admirable poem, which 
laid the foundation of his fame. It contains the most spirited invec- 
tives against tyranny and oppression, the warmest predilection fo* 
has own country, and the purest love of virtue. — In 1744, appeared 
his " Life of Savage." The narrative is remarkably smooth and well 
disposed, the observations are just, and the reflections disclose the 
inmost recesses of the human heart. — " The Vanity of Human 
Wishes," was produced in 1749. It contains profound reflections t 
and the various instances of disappointment, are judiciously chosen, 
and strongly painted. — " The Rawbler" came out in 1750. In this 



APPENDIX. 227 

work, Johnson is the great moral teacher of his countrymen; his es- 
•ays form a body of ethics : the observations on life and manners, are 
acute and instructive : and the papers, professedly critical, serve to 
promote the cause of literature. Every page shows a mind teeming 
frith classical allusion, and poetical imagery. — In 1755 he publish- 
ed his grand work the " Dictionary of the English Language." This 
performance may properly be called the Mount Atlas of English li- 
terature. The labour of forming it was immense ; and the definitions 
exhibit astonishing proofs of acuteness of intellect, and precision of 
language. — His " Lives of the English Poets" were completed in 
1781. This is an eminently valuable work. His judgment, taste, 
quickness in the discrimination of motives, and his happy art of giv- 
ing to well-known incidents the grace of novelty, and the force of 
instruction, shine strongly in these narratives. Sometimes, however, 
his colourings receive a tinge from prejudice, and his judgment is 
insensibly warped by the particularity of his private opinions. He 
wrote also " The idler," " Rasselas," " The Vision of Theodore," 
" A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland," and many other 
works, which our limits will not allow us to characterize, or even to 
enumerate. 

In 1783, the palsy gave Johnson warning of the failure of his con- 
Btitution. A melancholy, which in him was constitutional, and which 
had harassed him more or less through every period of his life, join 
ed to a very scrupulous sense of duty, filled him with apprehension 
of an event, which few men have had so good a right to meet with 
fortitude. The last, daj-s of his existence were however, less cloud- 
ed by gloomy fears ; and he departed this life, in the year 1784, with 
resignation and comfortable hope. 

Langhorne, John, — an ingenious English writer, was born in 
Westmoreland : the ye r of his birth cannot be ascertained. After 
entering into orders, he became tutor to the sons of a geD*\eman in 
Lincolnshire, whose daughter he married. She lived but a short 
time; and was very pathetically lamented by her husband, in a 
monody. This piece may rank with the celebrated elegiac compo- 
sitions of Lyttleton and Shaw ; to which it is equal in poetical merit, 
and scarcely inferior in pathetic tenderness. 

Langhorne was the author of several literary productions; amongst 
which are, Sermons in 2 vols. ; " Effusions of Fancy," 2 vols. : 
" Theodosius and Constantia," 2 vols. : " Solyman and Almena," 
" A Dissertation on Religious Retirement," and " A Translation of 
Plutarch's Lives." This translation is executed with an elegance, 
fidelity, spirit, and precision, that merit high commendation. The 
life of Plutarch is well written ; and the notes are very valuable." 

One of his last publications was, " The Country Justice," which 
appeared in 1777. This piece breathes throughout a genuine spirit 
of poetry and humanity. From this time his health gradually de- 
clined ; and he died in 1779. 

Langhorne's private character appears to have been very amiable 
and excellent. — As a poet, his sentimental productions are tender 
and beautiful; his descriptive compositions show a luxuriant irr*$in- 



SS8 * APPENDIX. 

ation ; and his lyric pieces teem with the true spirit of poetical c n. 
thusiasm. 

Logan, John, — a Scottish divine and poet, was born in the corn* 
ty of Mid Lothian, about the year 1748. After passing tlirough 1 U3 
usual course of school education in the country, he was sent to 1 be 
university of Edinburgh, where he completed his classical edu< a- 
tion, and afterwards applied with success to the several branches of 
philosophy and theology. In 1779, he delivered a series of lectin er 
on the " Philosophy of History ;" and was gratified with the appi o- 
bation and friendship of Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Ferguson, 
and other men of genius and learning. 

In 1731, he published " Elements of the Philosophy of Histor}.** 
This work displays deep penetration, comprehensive views, and aui- 
mated composition. The same year, he published a volume of poems, 
in which he reprinted, with some alterations, the " Ode to Ihe 
Cuckoo." This ode is highly distinguished by the delicate graces of 
simplicity and tenderness. 

After a lingering indisposition, he died in London, in 1788, in Ihe 
40th year of his age. 

In 1790, a volume of " Sermons," selected from his manuscripts, 
was published at Edinburgh, under the superintendence of Dr. Blair, 
Dr. Robertson, and Dr. Hardy, professor of ecclesiastical history in 
the university. — His sermons, though not so highly polished as th< »se 
of Dr. Blair, have been thought to possess, in a greater degree, 1 he 
animated and passionate eloquence of Massillon and Atterbury. 

Lyttleton, George, — a nobleman of literary eminence, was born 
in 1709. He leceived the rudiments of education at Eton school, 
where he was so much distinguished, that his exercises were recom 
mended as models to his school-fellows. From Eton he went to 
Christ Church, Oxford, where he retained che same reputation ot 
superiority. Here he wrote several of his pastorals ; and sketched 
the plan of his Persian Letters. 

In the year 1728, he set out on the tour of Europe. His conduct, 
while on his travels, was a lesson of instruction to the rest of Ids 
countrymen. Instead of lounging away his hours at the coffee-houses 
frequented by the English, and adopting the fashionable follies and 
vices of France and Italy, his time was passed alternately in hij 
library, and in the society of men of rank and literature. On his r . 
turn to England, he obtained a seat in parliament ; and distinguish 
ed himself by his patriotic exertions. He afterwards filled, with 
great reputation, several high offices in the state ; and was created, 
by letters patent, a peer of Great Britain. In politics and public 
life, he made the general good the rule of his conduct. His speecn. 
es in parliament exhibit sound judgment, powerful eloquence, and 
inflexible integrity. 

In 1742, he married Lucy, the daughter of Hugh Fortescue, Esq. 
This lady's exemplary conduct, and uniform practice of religion and 
virtue, placed his conjugal happiness on the most promising basis — 
But in the course of four years, this excellent woman died, in toe 
29th year of her age. Lord Lvttleton, on this melancholy event 



APPENDIX. 229 

^rote a monody, which will be read while conjugal affection, and a 
taste for poetry, exist in this country. 

In 1747, he produced his celebrated " Dissertation on the Con- 
version of St. Paul ;" a treatise to which infidelity has never been 
able to fabricate a specious answer. In 1760 he published his " Dia- 
logues of the Dead ;" in which the morality of Fenelon, and the spirit 
of Fontenelle, are happily united. His last literary production was 
the " History of Henry the Second," a labour of twenty years. This 
work is justly ranked among the most valuable historical perform- 
ances in the English language. It is executed with great fidelity. 
The style is perspicuous and unaffected, generally correct, and often 
elegant and masterly. The sentiments and remarks are judicious 
and pertinent; liberal with respect to religion, and friendly to the 
cause of liberty and the rights of mankind. 

During the last ten years of Lord Lyttleton, he lived chiefly in re* 
tirement, in the continual exercise of all the virtues which can en- 
noble private life. In the summer of 1 773 he was suddenly seized 
with an inflammation of the bowels, which soon terminated in his 
death. His last moments were attended with unimpaired under- 
standing, unaffected greatness of mind, calm resignation, and hum- 
ble but confident hopes in the mercy of God. As he had lived uni- 
versally esteemed, he died lamented by all parties. 

Melmoth, William, — was born in 1 7 10. His father was a bencher 
of Lincoln's Inn, and the author of that excellent treatise, entitled, 
" The Great Importance of a Religious Life." The present subjeei 
of our biographical sketch, was the author of the elegant classical 
letters, which bear the name of Sir Thomas Fitzosborne. He wrote 
»\jo, Memoirs of his Father : and published admirable translations 
of Pliny's and Cicero's Epistles. He died in 1799. 

Merrick, James, — an ingenious poet, was born about the year 
t718. He was educated at Trinity College, Oxford ; where he took 
his degrees in art, and was elected fellow. He published " Poems 
on Sacred Subjects," and u A Translation of Tryphiodorus," a 
Greek poet, who wrote a poem on the destruction of Troy ; but the 
work by which he is most known is, " The Psalms translated or pa- 
raphrased." This is the best poetical English version of the psalms, 
now extant. His " Annotations on the Psalms," are very learned 
and judicious. They are interspersed with many valuable notes bjr 
the late archbishop Seeker. 

Merrick died at Reading in 1769. His character is fair and re 
spectable. 

Milton, John, — the most illustrious of the English poets, was de 
scended from an ancient family at Milton, near Oxford. He wae 
born in London, in the year 1608, and received the first rudiments 
of education under tlie care of his parents, assisted by a private tutus. 
For this tutor he felt a grateful regard ; and, during several years, 
held an affectionate correspondence with him. He was afterwards 
placed at St. Faul's school, where he applied so intensely to books, 
that he hurt his constitution, which naturally was not strong ; for 
from his twelfth year, he generally sat up hah' the night at his studies. 



230 APPENDIX. 

This practice, with his frequent head-aches, is supposed to have oc» 
©asioned the first injury to his eyes. From St. Paul's school, he 
went to Cambridge, where he took his degrees in the arts. He wa» 
designed for the clerical office ; but not having much inclination foi 
that profession, he declined it. 

From 163£, to 1637, he resided at his father's house in Bucking', 
hamshire ; where he enriched his mind with the choicest stores of 
Grecian and Roman learning. Here he wrote his V Allegro, II Pen, 
seroso, and Lycidas, pieces which alone would have acquired for 
him a high literary fame. 

In 1638, he travelled into France and Italy ; where he was treat- 
ed with singular respect and kindness, by persons of the first emi- 
nence, both for rank and learning. On his return to England, he 
settled m London, and kept a seminary for the education of a few 
children, sons of gentlemen. From this period to the Restoration, 
he was so deeply engaged in the controversies of the times, that he 
found no leisure for polite learning. 

In 1651 appeared his famous book in answer to the Defence of iht 
king, written by Salmasius, for which the parliament rewarded him 
with a thousand pounds. This piece was so sev; re, and so much 
read, that it is said to have killed his antagonist with vexation. — 
Whilst he was writing this work he lost his eye-sight, which had 
been decaying for several years. 

The great work of " Paradise Lost," was finished in 1665. He 
sold the copy for Jive pounds in hand, five pounds more when 1300 
should be sold, and the same sum on the publication of the second, 
and the third editions. Such was the first reception of a work that 
constitutes the glory and boast of English literature ; a work that, 
notwithstanding the severity of criticism, may be ranked among the 
noblest efforts of human genius. Of the moral sentiments of this 
performance, it is hardly praise to affirm, that they excel those of 
all other poets. For this superiority he was indebted to his accu- 
rate knowledge of the sacred writings. The ancient epic poets, 
wanting the light of Revelation, were very unskilful teachers of vir- 
tue : their principal characters may be great, but they are not amia 
ble. The reader may rise from their works, with a greater degree 
of active or passive fortitude, and sometimes of prudence : but he 
will be able to carry away few precepts of justice, and none of 
mercy. 

The " Paradise Regained" appeared three years after the pubK 
cation of Paradise Lost. It has suffered much by comparison : it 
is obscured by the splendour of its predecessor. But hadany other 
than Milton been the author, it would have claimed and received 
universal applause. 

Our author, worn down with the gout, paid the debt of nature, in 
1674. His funeral was splendidly and numerously attended. 

Moore, Edward, — was born at Abingdon in Berkshire, in *he year 
1712. Of his personal history, the particulars recorded ^y his bio- 
hollers, are insufficient to satisfy curiosity, and disproportionate to 

reputation amougthe periodical essayists, and the writers of verse* 



APPENDIX. 231 

His fevhfci dying 1 when he was about ten years old, the direction 
of his education was kindly undertaken by his uncle at Bridgewa- 
ter. With him he spent some years of his early life, and was then 
removed to the school of East Orchard, in Dorsetshire. 

His original destination appears to have been trade : and, at a pro- 
per age, he was placed with a wholesale linen-draper in London. — 
Bu t his taste not corresponding with the views of his friends, he re- 
linquished the business to which he was bred, became a candidate 
tor fame, and attached himself to the muses. In 1744, he courted 
public attention by producing his first performance entitled, " Fa- 
bles for the Female Sex;" which was favourably received. In 
1753, he began a periodical paper, called " The World, by Adam 
Fitz Adam," which he carried on in weekly numbers for four years 
The design, as he explains it in the first number, " was to ridicule, 
with novelty and good humour, the fashions, follies, vices, and ab- 
surdities, of that part of the human species which we call the 
World; and to trace it through all its business, pleasures, and 
amusements." The wits of the age were invited to join in it, and 
they gave it their assistance. The demand for this work greatly 
exceeded expectation ; and, during its appearance, it was the only 
fashionable vehicle, in which men of rank and genius chose to con- 
vey their sentiments to the public. 

It is io be lamented, that this respectable person did not acquire 
the means of a comfortable subsistence. All his exertions were bare- 
ly sufficient to ward off the inconveniences of poverty. He died in 
1757, in the 45th year of his age. 

The character of Moore was truly amiable and estimable. He 
had a peculiar sweetness of temper, and was a most entertaining and 
cheerful companion. The simplicity of his manners much endeared 
him to all his acquaintances, and made them always speak of him 
with particular regard. From the names of his coadjutors in the 
World, and of the persons to whom his several pieces are addressed, 
it appears that he was honoured with the friendship of almost all his 
cotemporaries, who were themselves remarkable for talents and 
leai nmg. 

As a poet, his compositions are characterized by a refined ele- 
gance of sentiment, and a correspondent happiness of expression. — 
But his greatest recommendation, is the purity which pervades his 
writings, and the apparent tendency of them to promote morality 
and virtue. His Fables, the most popular of all his works, are equal 
to the best compositions of that kind in our language. In the free- 
dom and ease of the versification, in the forcibleness of the moral, 
and in the poignancy of the satire, they approach nearer to the man- 
ner of Gay, than any of the numerous imitations of that popular fa- 
bulist. In poetical spirit, beautiful imagery, and harmony of num- 
bers, they possess an unquestionable superiority. They have not 
only great merit of the moral kind, but they delight us as a just pic- 
ture of human life. 

Murray, William, — earl of Mansfield, was born at Perth, in 
1705. He was happily endowed by nature, and happily educated. 



*32 APPENDIX. 

He was bred to the law ; and after filling several distinguished sta 
tk>ns, was, in 1756, made chief justice of the King's Bench. Hi- 
merits as a lawyer, and his attachment to the common law of Eng 
land, have been variously appreciated. He had warm friends and 
zealous enemies. The address of the gentlemen of the Bar to him, 
after his resignation of office, is an honourable testimony to his me- 
rit ; and virtually refutes the charges made against him. 

Lord Mansfield was a most eloquent speaker. His eloquence 
was not, indeed, of that daring, declamatory kind, so irresistibly 
powerful in the momentary bustle of popular assemblies ; but it wai 
possessed of that pure and Attic spirit, and seductive power of per- 
suasion, that delight, instruct, and eventually triumph. 

After having long eminently served his king and country, he per- 
«x»ived the infirmities of body to press upon him ; and, in 1788, he 
thought it his duty to resign the office of chief justice, and to retire 
from public business. From this period, his bodily powers continu 
ed to decline; and in 1793 he died, in the 89th year of his age. 

The last will of lord Mansfield begins with the following elegant 
and pious paragraph, with which we shall close our sketch of him. 

" When it shall please Almighty God to call me to that state, to 
which, of all I nov/ enjoy, I can carry only the satisfaction of my 
own conscience, and a full reliance upon his mercy through Jesus 
Christ, I desire that my body may be interred as privately as may 
be : and out of respect for the place of my early education, 1 should 
wish it to be in Westminster Abbey." 

Parnei.l, Dr. Thomas, — a well known poet, contemporary with 
Pope, Swift, &c. was born in Dublin in 1679. When he was only 
thirteen years old, he became a member of Trinity College, Dublin : 
and in 1700 was admitted to the degree of Master of Arts. About 
three years afterwards, he entered into priest's orders : and, about 
the same time, married a young woman of great beauty and merit. 
He first visited England about the year 1706, where his friendship 
was very generally sought, even before he had distinguished himself 
by his writings. Pope was particularly fond of his company ; and 
appears to have been under some obligations to him, in his transla- 
tion of the Iliad. 

Amidst his honours and expectations, he had the affliction to lose 
his amiable wife, which made a deep impression on his mind. They 
had lived together in great conjugal felicity. His grief for this loss 
induced him to seek relief in society ; and brought on habits which 
were injurious to his health. He died at Chester, in his way to Ire 
land, in the thirty-ninth year of his age. 

Parnell was a man of great benevolence, and very agreeable man 
ners : his conversation is said to have been extremely pleasing. Hu 
prose writings, are, his papers in the Spectator and Guardian, hi* 
Essay on Homer, Life of Zoilus, and remarks on Zoilus. In gene, 
ral, they have not been thought to disp'-iy a great degree of force or 
comprehension of mind : but they ar rich in imagery, and full cf 
learning, good sense, and knowledge of mankind. As a poet, he b 
aot distinguished by strength of intellect, or fertility of invention 



APPENDIX. 233 

His taste was delicate, and improved by classical study ; but his ad 
miration of the ancients in some degree precluded originality. Hi? 
thoughts, without being very new, are just and pleasing. The im 
ages, though not great, are well selected and happily applied : his 
6entiments are natural and agreeable. The moral tendency of hia 
poems, is excellent ; and his language pure and correct. The Night 
Piece on Death merits high commendation. It is indirectly prefer- 
red by Goldsmith to Gray's " Elegy ;" but, in Dr. Johnson's opinion, 
Gray has the advantage, in dignity, variety, and originality of senti- 
ment. The most popular of Parnell's Poems has always been hi* 
Hermit; which is certainly conspicuous for piety cf design, utility 
of moral, and elegance of description. 

Percival, Thomas, — was born at Warrington, in the year 1740 
His education commenced at a private school in the neighbourhood • 
from whence he was, in his eleventh year, transferred to th.3 Free 
Grammar School of Warrington, in which he gave striking promise 
of talents and industry. In 1757, he was enrolled the first student 
of the Warrington Academy : and after prosecuting his studies there 
with diligence and reputation, for more than three years, he remov 
ed to the University of Edinburgh ; in which place he employed a 
considerable time in close application to the study of physic. In 
the year 1764, at an unusually early period of life, he was unani- 
mously elected Fellow of the Royal Society of London. 

Having passed sometime at Paris, Hamburgh, and various other 
places on the Continent, but principally at Leyden, in the universi- 
ty of which he graduated, he returned to England in the year 1765. 
The theatre of his professional practice then became the object of 
his serious deliberations : and, after a variety of plans proposed and 
rejected, his choice was ultimately directed to Manchester? ; in which 
town he settled in the year 1767, and there continued till his death, 
in the unremitting exercises of his profession. 

His merits as a practitioner of physic, and the benefits conferred 
by him on medical science, were very distinguished. A quick pene- 
tration, a discriminating judgment, a comprehensive knowledge, 
and above all, a solemn sense of responsibility, were the endowments 
which fitted him at once to discharge the duties, and to extend the 
boundaries, of the healing art. His external accomplishments and 
manners were alike happily adapted to the offices of his profession. 
To an address peculiarly engaging, from its uncommon mixture of 
dignity, respectfulness, and ease, was united a gravity of deportment 
that bespoke the seriousness of interest, not the gloom of apprehen- 
sion. The expression of a genuine, benign sympathy, presented him 
likewise the comforter in the physician. And the topics of encou- 
ragement and consolation, which the goodness of his heart, and the 
ample stores of his cultivated mind, abundantly suppVed, enabled 
iiim to administer relief to the wounds of the spirit, with no less e£ 
ficacy than to the diseases of the body. 

As a literary character, Dr. Percival held a distinguished rank. 
His earlier publications were devoted to inquiries extensively medi- 
cal and philosophical, and they have long obtained for their author 
it <a 



£34 APPENDIX. 

high and deserved reputation amongst the learned. The subject* 
which occupied his pen, in latter years, were of a nature the moal 
congenial to his feelings. In the several volumes of Father's In- 
structions and Moral Dissertations y which were originally designed 
to excite in the hearts of his children a desire of knowledge and a 
love of virtue, we find purity of style, genuine feeling, refined taste, 
and pious reflections. There is no object of higher importance than 
that which the author held in view the intellectual, moral, and reli- 
gious improvement of the rising generation. The last work which 
Dr. Percival published, the " Medical Ethics," and which appeared 
in the year 1803, is alone sufficient to establish his character,, as a 
wise, good, and amiable man. This most valuable treatise, which 
he expressly dedicated, as a " paternal legacy," to a much loved son, 
may now be regarded as his bequest to his brethren of the faculty, 
and to the public It is indeed a monument of professional inte* 
grity and honour. 

In social discussioa, Dr. Percival possessed powers of a very un. 
common stamp. But highly as he was to be admired ani loved for 
his engaging manners, and his intellectual endowments, these senti- 
ments were yet more forcibly excited by the qualities which dignu 
fied and embellished his moral nature. These shed around his cha- 
i aoter that lustre which made him a public light. He was solicitous 
on all occasions to make the Holy Scriptures the interpreter and the 
test of religious truth ; and he had imbibed, from the stated perusal 
of the sacred volume, an enlightened familiarity with the great vital 
principles of Christianity. 

In the relations of husband, friend, and parent, he was in a high 
degree exemplary. The endearments with v/hich his instruc- 
tions were conveyed, the lenient remonstrances with which youth- 
ful errors were reproved, the tempered indulgence with which the 
reins of paternal authority were guided, procured for him from his 
children their fondest regard, and most friendly confidence. 

It was the lot of this virtuous and distinguished person, to experi- 
ence some severely afflicting providences, in that quarter where his 
teaderest affections were engaged. But here the consolations of Chris- 
tian hope, and the unshaken assurances of Divine goodness, were hio 
refuge and support. And whilst he bowed in resigned submission 
to that discipline with which it was the good pleasure of God to ex- 
ercise his faith, and with pious Job was enabled to praise and glorify 
that Being, who both gave and took away ; he turned with grateful 
contentment to those numerous domestic blessings, which were yet 
permitted him to enjey, and which he continued with pious thank- 
fulness to cherish and improve to the latest period of his life. — Ho 
died in 1804, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. 

Philips, Ambrose, — an English poet, descended from an ancient 
family in Leicestershire, was born in 1671. He was educated at St 
John's college, Cambridge. During his stay at the University, ho 
wrote his " Pastorals," which at the time acquired him a high repu- 
tation. He possessed the friendship and intimacy of many of the 
celebrated geniuses of that age. But he had tne misfortune to bo 



APPENDIX. 136 

disliked by Pope ; the ground of which is supposed to be, that jea- 
lousy of fame, which was so conspicuous in the character of una 
great poet. 

In 1709, Philips wrote a little poem, called "A Winter Piece,** 
dated at Copenhagen, and addressed to the earl of Dorset. This IB 
a piece of descriptive poetry eminently beautiful. Sir Richard 
Steele mentions it, in the Tatler, with honour. " This is," says he, 
** as fine a piece as we ever had from any of the schools of the most 
learned painters. Such images as these give us a new pleasure in 
bur sight , and fix upon our minds traces of reflection, which accom- 
pany ns wherever the like objects occur." Pope himself always 
excepted this piece from the general censure he passed on Philips*s 
works. 

Philips wrote also " The life of Archbishop Williams ;" anJ sevo- 
tal dramatic pieces ; and was concerned in a series of papers called 
the "Free Thinker." He died in the year 1749, and in his 78th 
fear. He appears to have been a man of integrity. 

Pitt, William, — one of the most illustrious statesmen and orators 
that have ever appeared in the world, was born in 1708. His vigi- 
ance and sagacity in office, were only equalled by his disinlerested- 
jess. He was a most animated and powerful speaker ; his eloquence 
'iften shook the senate, and echoed through the kingdom. This 
p-eat man enjoyed the public confidence to a degree seldom, or ne- 
'er, before witnessed by any statesman. — He died in 1778; and a 
nonument was erected in Westminster Abbey, to his memory, with 
the following highly honourable inscription. 

Erected by the King and Parliament, 

as a testimony to 

The virtues and ability 

of 

William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, 

During whose administration 

Divine Providence 

Exalted Great Britain 

To an height of prosperity and glory 

Unknown to any former age. 

Plint the younger, — was born at Como, in the year 62. He 
trought into the world with him fine parts and an elegant taste, 
. nich he did not fail to cultivate ear'y ; for, at fourteen years of age, 
*je wrote a Greek tragedy. He frequented the schools of the rhe- 
toricians, and heard Quintilian ; for whom he entertained so high an 
esteem, that he bestowed a considerable portion upon hii» daugh- 
ter, at her marriage. In his eighteenth year, he began to plead in 
ihe Forum, which was the usual road to dignities. Here he display- 
ed uncommon abilities and eloquence. 

He was promoted to the consulate by the emperor Trajan, in 'be 
year 100, when he was 38 years of age. In this office he prouounc. 
ed that celebrated panegyric on Trajan, which has ever since been 



£36 APPENDIX. 

admired, as well for the copiousness of the topics as the elegance of 
address. It has always been considered as a master-piece of compo- 
sition and eloquence. His " Episties," are written with great po- 
liteness and spirit ; and abound with interesting 1 anecdotes of many 
eminent persons. 

Pliny died about the year 116. — His manners, notwithstanding the 
general contagion of the age in which he lived, were pure. His 
writings breathe a spirit of transcendent goodness and humanity ; 
his only imperfection appears to be, too great a desire that the publio 
and posterity should know how humane and good he was. 

Pope, Alexander, — an English poet of the first eminence, was 
born in London, in the year 1688. His father was a linen-draper, 
and a distant relation of the earl of Downe. He was taught to read 
rery ^arly, by an aunt ; and learned to write without any assistance, 
by copying printed books. The family being of the Roman catholic 
religion, he was placed at eight years of age under the care of a 
priest, who taught him the rudiments of the Latin and Greek 
tongues together. From the disadvantages he laboured under, in 
point of tuition, he may be properly said to be one of those who are 
eelf-taught. 

He early discovered an inclination to versify ; and, at fifteen, he 
bad scribbled a great deal of poetry of various kinds. Though, at 
first, he was a little intoxicated with the waters of Helicon, he after- 
wards attained to great sobriety of thought. " I confess," says he, 
" there was a time, when I was in love with myself; and my first 
productions were the children of self-love and of innocence. I had 
made an epic poem, and panegyrics on all the princes ; and I 
thought myself the greatest genius that ever was. But these de- 
lightful visions are vanished forever." 

In 1704, he published his " Pastorals," which first introduced him 
to the wits of that period. His " Essay on Criticism" appeared in 
1708. Of this work Dr. Johnson observes, that if he had written 
, nothing else, it would have placed him among the first critics and 
the first poets ; as it exhibits every mode of excellence that can em- 
bellish or dignify didactic composition ; selection of matter, novelty 
of arrangement, justness of precept, splendour of illustration, and 
propriety of digression. In 1712, he published " The Rape of the 
Lock." This is the most attractive of all ludicrous compositions. 
The creative power of imagination, which properly constitutes a 
poet, is, perhaps, more evident in this poem, than in all his other 
works put together. In 1715, he produced his " Iliad ;" a transla* 
tion of eminent merit. It is not the work of a mere scholar or re*. 
6ifier : it is the performance of a poet This version is so exquisitely 
harmonious, that it may be said to have tuned the English tongue* 
In the year 1728, his " Dunciad" appeared. As a work of wit and 
ingenious satire, it has few equals. Without approving the petulance 
and malignity of the design, it may be said, that the vigour of intel- 
lect, and the fertility of fancy, which it displays, are equally admir- 
able. In. 1733, he published his " Essay on Man." Whatever ob- 
jections may be made to this work, as an ethical system, the reader 



API'ENDIX. 237 

will find it a store-house of great and generous sentiments : he will 
seldom rise from the perusal of it, without feeling his mind animated 
with the love of virtue ; and improved in benevoience towards his 
fellow-creatures, and piety towards his Creator. 

Pope was the author of many other poems, which cannot be enu* 
merated in this sketch. — In 1753, he found his constitution much 
impaired ; and he declined gradually till his death, which happened 
in the 57th year of his age. 

Prior, Matthew, — an eminent English poet, was born in London, 
tn 1664. His father died whilst he was very young; and an uncle, 
who was a vintner, gave him some education at Westminster school ; 
and afterwards took him home, to train him to his own occupation. 
Young Prior, however, at his leisure hours, prosecuted the study of 
the classics, and especially of his favourite Horace. This introduced 
him to some polite company, who frequented his uncle's house. 
The earl of Dorset took particular notice of him ; and procured his 
being sent to Cambridge, where he became a fellow of St. John's 
College. He was brought to court by the earl of Dorset. He served 
as secretary to several embassies ; and in 1697 he was made secre- 
tary of state for Ireland. In 1700 he was appointed one of the lords 
commissioners of trade and plantations; and in 1711, he was sent 
minister plenipotentiary to France, to negociate a peace with that 
kingdom. Amidst his various public employments, he found time to 
indulge his poetical talents ; and published many pieces, which have 
been much read and applauded. As a poet, he holds a high rank for 
elegance and correctness. His A Ima has many admirers. Of this 
poem, Pope said, that he could wish to have been the author. " The 
paraphrase on St. Paul's Exhortation to Charity," Dr. Johnson 
6ays, " is eminently beautiful." 

Prior spent the latter years of his life in tranquillity and retire- 
ment, and died in the year 1721. 

Robertson, William, — a celebrated historian, was born in Scot* 
land, in 1721. When his studies at the university of Edinburgh, 
were completed, he was licensed to preach; and, in 1743, two years 
afterwards, was presented to the living of Gladsmuir, in East Lothian. 
The income was inconsiderable, not exceeding one hundred pounds 
a year : but the preferment came to him at a time singularly favour, 
able ; for soon afterwards both his parents died, leaving a family of 
six daughters and a younger son, in such circumstances as required 
every aid which his slender fund enabled him to bestow. Undeter. 
red by the magnitude of a charge, which must have appeared fatal 
to the prospects that had hitherto animated his studies, he resolved 
to sacrifice to a sacred duty all personal considerations ; and, accord- 
ingly, he invited his father's family to Gladsmuir, and continued to 
educate his sisters under his own roof, till they were settled respscU 
ably in the world. This conduct bears the most honourable testi. 
mony to the generosity of his dispositions, and to the warmth of his 
affections. 

In 1759, he published his " History of Scotland." This work waj 
received by the world with applause so unbounded, that, before the 



£38 APPENDIX. 

end of a month from its publication, he was desired by his bookseller 
to prepare for a second edition. In 1769, appeared his " History oi 
Charles the Fifth," and in 1777, the "History of America." It 
would be difficult to speak of these works, in higher terms of praise^ 
than they deserve. With respect to selection of materials, imparti- 
adity, arrangement, language, and interesting representation, they 
scarcely have any equal in historical composition. 

In 1789, he produced "An Historical Disquisition concerning Aiw 
cit,nt India." This work, which he performed in twelve months, 
exhibits, in every part, a diligence in research, a soundness of judg- 
ment, and a perspicuity of method, little, if at all, inferior to those 
which distinguish his other performances. 

He was principal of the university of Edinburgh, historiographer 
for Scotland, and one of the king's chaplains for that country. Ho 
died in 1793. 

Rollin, Charles, — A Frenchman, celebrated for eloquence, and 
skill in the belles lettres, was the son of a cutler at Paris, and born 
there in 1661. He early distinguished himself by parts and appli- 
cation, and easily obtained the first rank among his fellow students. 
In 1688, he became professor of eloquence, in the royal college; 
and no man ever exercised its functions with greater eclat. In 1694, 
he was chosen rector of the university of Paris. Here he mads many 
useful regulations. He substituted academical exercises in the place 
of tragedies, and promoted among the students a greater attention 
to the Holy Scriptures. He was indefatigable in business, and edu- 
cated a very great number of persons who did honour to the vari- 
ous departments of the state. 

By the intrigues of ill-disposed persons, he was deprived of his ofc 
fice in the university. But whatever that seminary might suffer 
from the removal of Rollin, the public was a gainer : for he then ap- 
plied himself to compose his treatise upon the " Manner of Studying 
and Teaching the Belles Lettres," which was published in 1726 
This work has been much esteemed, and exceedingly successful. 
In 1738, appeared his " Ancient History." Of this publication Vol- 
taire says, " It is the best compilation mat has yet appeared in any 
language." He published soon afterwards his " Roman History.* 
This performance was not so successful as his " Ancient History.* 
It is, indeed, rather a moral and historical discourse, than a formal 
history. The reader will, however, find it replete with instruction. 

This excellent person died in 1741. — He was a man of an admirau 
ble composition, very ingenious, consummate in polite learning, of 
rigid morals, and eminently pious. In all respects, except a little 
zeal of a superstitious nature, he was a very estimable and irrepioach 
able character. We find in his works, generous and exalted senti- 
ments ; a zeal for the good of society ; a love of virtue ; a venersu 
tion for Providence ; and, in short, every thing, though on profane 
subjects, sanctified with a spirit truly religious. 

Sallustius, Caius Crispus, — a Latin historian, was born in Italy, 
f?5 years before the Christian era. He was an excellent writer 
O*" his numerous works, nothing remains but his " History of Cat* 



APPENDIX. 239 

fine's Conspiracy," and of the " Jugurthine Wars," with a few ora. 
tions. No man has inveighed more sharply against the vices of his 
age than this historian : yet few persons had less pretensions to vh> 
tue than Sallust. On this occasion, it may be observed, that virtue 
derives some sanction from the praises of vicious men, whose reason 
forces them to approve what their passions will not suffer them to 
practise. 

Scott, John, — an English poet, was born in the year 1730. In 
17C0, he published four " Elegies, descriptive and moral," which ob 
tained the approbation of Dr. Young, and of several other eminent 
characters. When the author of the " Night Thoughts" received 
i copy of the " Elegies" from his bookseller, he returned his acknow- 
ledgment in these words, " I thank you for your present. I admire 
the poetry and piety of the author ; and shall do myself the credit to 
recommend it to all my friends." In 1782, he published a volume 
of poems ; besides which he wrote some ingenious essays, ic. fugi- 
tive miscellanies. His " Amwell" is an easy and melodious descrip- 
tive poem ; and the " Critical Essays" possess a considerable de- 
gree of merit. His muse was singularly chaste and delicate. He 
was a man of great benevolence ; and a zealous advocate for the 
poor and distressed. Plis charity was not limited to speculative be. 
nevolence ; for he searched out, and relieved, the objects who stood 
in need of his bounty and consolation. He died in 1783. 

Seed, Jeremiah, — an English divine, was born at Clifton, near 
Penrith, m Cumberland. He had his school education at Lowther ; 
and his academical, at Queen's College, in Oxford, of which society 
he was chosen fellow, in 1732. The greater part of his life was 
spent at Twickenham, where he was assistant or curate to Dr. 
Waterland. He published two volumes of excellent " Discourses 
on several important subjects." He died in 1747. Seed was ex- 
emplary in his morals : he had an able head, and a most excellent 
heart. 

Smart, Christopher, — a poet of some celebrity, was born in Kent, 
In 1722. He was one of those boys, whose minds display more early 
vigour than their bodies. He soon discovered a taste for poetry, 
which was encouraged and cultivated. At seventeen, he was re- 
mo*, ed from school to Pembroke-Hall, at Cambridge. 

The slender means of support which he possessed, were ill adapt- 
ed to his constant temptation to mix with a variety of company, 
which the admiration of his talents, his classical attainments, and his 
rivacity, produced. At college, therefore, he drew upon himself 
embarrassments which oppressed him during life. Iu 1753, he mar- 
ried and settled in London, having determined to subsist by his pow- 
ers as an author. But this mode of life neither augmented his 
personal importance, nor the credit of his productions. As he was 
never sufficiently delicate in his person, his taste, or his acquaintance, 
he lost his dignity, his time, and his peace of mind. Yet, at one pe- 
riod, he enjoyed the familiar acquaintance of Dr. Johnson, Dr. 
James, Dr. Hawkesworth, Dr. Goldsmith, and most of the person* 
In London, who were then celebrated for genius or learning. 



240 APPENDIX 

Though his constitution, as well as his fortune, required the ut- 
most care, he was equally negligent of both : and his various re- 
peated embarrassments, acting upon an imagination uncommonly 
fervid, produced temporary alienations of mind; which, at last, be- 
came so violent and continued, as to render confinement necessary 
At length, after suffering the accumulated miseiies of poverty, dis- 
ease, and insanity, he died of a disorder in his liver, in 1771, in the 
49 th year of his age. 

His writings consist of Prize Poems, Odes, Sonnets, Fables, La. 
(in and English Translations, &c. His fine poems on the Divine 
Attributes, are written with the sublimest energies of religion, and 
the true enthusiasm of poetry. In composing them, he was fre- 
quently so impressed with sentiments of devotion as to write parti 
cular passages on his knees. The character of Smart was strongly 
varied by excellencies and failings. He was friendly, affectionate, 
and liberal to excess; so much so, as often to give that to others, of 
which he was in the utmost want himself. His chief fault, from 
which most of his other faults proceeded, was his deviation from the 
rules of sobriety ; of which the early use of cordials, in the infirm 
gtate of his childhood and j'outh, might, perhaps, be one cause, and 
i& the only extenuation. 

Thomson, James, — an excellent British poet, was born in the 
ehire of Roxburgh, in the year 1700. From the school of Jedburgh, 
where he was taught the common rudiments of learning, he was re- 
moved to the university of Edinburgh. But at neither of these se- 
minaries was he distinguished by any remarkable superiority of 
parts. He was educated with a view to the ministry ; but his ge- 
tiius strongly inclining him to the study of poetry, he chose to relin- 
quish his intention of engaging in the sacred function. 

In 1726, he published his excellent poem on Winter. Though it 
tras not, at first, eagerly received by the readers of poetry, it soon 
met with great applause : and Thomson's acquaintance was courted 
by persons of the first taste and fashion. The expectations whiclfc 
his Winter had raised, were fully satisfied, by the successive pub-V 
cations of the other seasons ; of Summer, in the year 17S'7 of 
Spring, in the following year; and of Autumn, in 1730. 

Soon after these works had appeared, he travelled with th« tto, 
nourable Charles Talbot, and visited most of the courts of Eu jpe» 
He returned to England with his views greatly enlarged ; no* only 
of exterior nature, and the works of art, but of human life an4 man- 
ners, and of the constitution and policy of the several state*, their 
connexions, and their religious institutions. How particular and 
judicious his observations had been, we see in his poen* on Li- 
berty, which was begun a short time after he returned fronv his tra- 
vels In this poem we have the master-pieces of ancient and modern 
art, placed in a stronger light than many visitors can see them witfc 
their own eyes. 

He composed and produced several dramatic performances, mot 
pf which met with public approbation. The last piece that he lived t 
f *blish, was " The Castle of Indolence." It was many years undo 



a?*pE5>. t ;dik. $41 

his hands, and finished, at last, with great accuracy. It is, pernapa, 
the most perfect of all his compositions. It is embellished with all 
the decorations which poetical imagination could confer. The plan 
is artfully laid, and naturally conducted, and the descriptions rise in 
a beautiful succession. 

In the summer of 1748,, he was seized with a fever, which soon 
put a period to his life, 

Thomson was an amiable and good man. His love of mankind, 
of his country and friends ; his devotion to the Supreme Being, 
founded on the most elevated and just conceptions of his operations 
and providence, shine brightly in his writings. He possessed great 
.benevolence of heart, which extended even to the brute creation. 
Through his whole life„ he was not known to give any person a mo- 
ment's pain, either by his writings or otherwise. These amiable 
virtues, this divine temper of mind, did not fail to receive their due 
reward. The best and greatest men of bis time honoured him with 
their friendship and protection ; the favour and applause of the pub- 
lic attended him ,; his friends loved him with an enthusiastic ardour, 
and sincerely lamented his death. 

As a writer, he is entitled to one praise of the highest kind, — his 
mode of thinking, and of expressing his thoughts, is original. He 
thinks always as a man of genius : he looks round on nature, and on 
life, with the eye which nature only bestows on a poet, the eye that 
distinguishes in every thing presented to its view, whatever there is 
on which imagination can delight to be detained ; and with a mind 
that at once comprehends the vast, and attends to the minute. The 
reader of the " Seasons" wonders that he never saw before what 
Thomson shows him, and that he had never felt what Thomson im- 
presses. 

Watts, Dr. Isaac, — a learned and eminent dissenting minister, 
was born at Southampton, in 1874, of parents remarkable for piety 
and virtue. From his infancy, he discovered a strong propensity to 
learning ; and was early distinguished for the sprightliness of his 
wit ; which, even in the years of younger life, was regulated by a 
deep sense of religion. At the school at Southampton, he was taught 
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew ; and in 1690 was sent to an academy in 
London, to complete his education. His tutor declared that during 
the whole time of his tuition at this aeademy, he was not only so in- 
offensive as never to give occasion for reproof ; but so exemplary, 
that he often proposed him as a pattern to his other pupils. 

In 1696, he was invited by Sir John Hartopp, to reside in his fami- 
ly at Stoke Newington, as tutor to his son. Here he continued about 
four years ; and acquitted himself with fidelity and reputation. Be- 
lieving it to be his duty, he determined to devote his life to the pas- 
toral office, of the importance of which he had a deep sense upon his 
mind, He began to preach on his birth-day 1698, when he had com 
pleted his 24th year ; and he met with general acceptance. 

In 1712, he had a severe fever, which, by its violence and conti 
nuance, reduced him so much that he never perfectly recovered 
The. languishing state of his health drew uoon him the attention « 



Thomas Abney, who received him into his house ; where, with 

constancy of friendship and uniformity of conduct not often to be 
found, he was treated for thirty'six years, with all the kindness that 
friendship could prompt, and all the attention that respect could dic- 
tate. From the time of his reception in this family, his life was no 
otherwise diversified than by successive labours for the good of man* 
kind ; the number and variety of which show the intensencss of his 
industry, and the extent of his capacity In 1728, the universities 
of Edinburgh and Aberdeen, without his knowledge, conferred on 
him the degree of Doctor of Divinity. 

His writings are so numerous, that in this sketch, we cannot even 
give a list of them. They were collected and published in 1754, in 
6 volumes quarto. His Lyric Poems, his Psalms and Hymns, and 
his Divine Songs for Children, are a sufficient prx/" ->f his po^'^-a 1 
talents. They have had an amazing number of editions, ins trea- 
tise on Logic, a masterly performance, has been long used in the 
most distinguished seminaries. His " Improvement of the Mind" is 
an excellent work, which may be recommended to all young persons 

This worthy and exemplary man became, towards the end of his 
days, so infirm that he was confined to his chamber and his bed, 
where he was worn gradually away, without pain, till he expired ic 
the 75th year of his age. 

Watts's intellectual and moral accomplishments are universally 
allowed to have been, in the highest degree, respectable and ami- 
able. His acquaintance with the most celebrated writers, both an- 
cient and modern, enriched his mind with a large and uncommon 
store of just sentiments, and useful knowledge of various kinds. As 
a Christian, he was eminent for pure and undissembled piety, humi- 
lity, candour and charity. He maintained a free and friendly cor- 
respondence with Christians of different parties and denominations. 
He engaged in controversy with a pacific view, to heal and re- 
concile disputes among Christians, rather than to make proselytes 
to any party ; and he wrote with such a spirit of meekness and love, 
as is truly instructive and exemplary. His singular patience, and 
pious resignation to the will of God, in seasons of affliction, emi- 
nently denoted the true Christian. 

Wilkie, William, — a Scottish poet, was born in the year 1721. 
He received his early education at the parish school cf Dalmeny, 
under the care of a very respectable and successful teacher. At the 
age of thirteen, he was sent to the university of Edinburgh, where 
he distinguished himself in the different classes of languages, philo 
sophy, and theology ; and formed many of those friendships and con 
nexions which afforded him much happiness through life. In 1757 
he published his " Epigoniad," a poem in nine books. Hume ch*. 
racterized this work, " as one of the ornaments of our language. ' 
His " Fables" were produced in 1768. Previous to this publication, 
the university of St. Andrews conferred upon him the degree of 
Doctor of Divinitj,'. He was fond of agriculture, and remarkable 
for his knowledge of its different branches. After a lingering indis- 



Appendix. %4b 

position, he died at St. Andrews, in 1772, in the 51st year of his 
age. 

Wilkie was very Attentive to the duties of religion. He employed 
a considerable portion of his time in reading the Holy Scriptures ; 
end he reg ttiarly kept up the worship of God in his family. In every 
situation of life he was kind to persons in distress, and very liberal 
in his private charity. 

As a poet, his compositions are not less distinguished by imagina 
tion and judgment, than his manners weie remarkable for eccen- 
tricity and originality. His " Epigoniad," if he had written nothing 
else, is sufficient to entitle him to an honourable rank amongst Bri. 
tish poets. His " Fables" discover an ingenious and acute turn o" 
mind, and a thorough knowledge of the nature and manners of men 
but they are not recommended by a great degree of poetical spirit, 
If Wilkie's Fables do not possess the ease of Gay, the elegance of 
Moore, or the humour and poignancy of Smart, they have the merit 
of an artless and easy versification ; of just observation ; and even, 
occasionally, of deep reasoning ; and they abound in strokes of a 
pathetic simplicity. 

Young, Edward, — was the son of a clergyman of the same name, 
and was born in 1681. At a proper age, he was matriculated of 
All-Souls College, Oxford, being designed for the civil law, in which 
profession he took a degree. In 1 704, he published his poem called 
" The Last Day," which was soon followed by " The Force of Re- 
ligion," or " Vanquished Love." These productions were highly 
approved ; and procured him many respectable friends. He was 
intimate with Addison, for whose " Spectator" he wrote many pa 
pers. The turn of his mind inclining mm towards the church, he> 
entered into orders, was made chaplain to the king, and obtained the 
rectory of Welwyn, worth about 500/. per annum, but he never rose 
to higher preferment, though it was long the object of his solicitude. 

When he was pretty far advanced in life he married lady Eliza 
beth Lee, daughter of the earl of Litchfield. This lady was a wi 
dow, and had an amiable son and daughter, both of whom died 
young. What he felt for their loss, as well as for that of his wife, is 
finely expressed in his " Night Thoughts ;" in which the young lady 
is characterized under the name of Narcissa ; her brother, by that 
©f Philander ; and his wife, though nameless, is frequently men- 
tioned. 

His satires called " Love of Fame the Universal Passion," have 
always been much esteemed. His " Complaint," or " Night 
Thoughts," exhibit him as a moral and deeply serious poet, and are 
Uis principal performance. For this grand and rich mass of solemn 
poetry, he has received unbounded applause. As an Essayist, his 
*' Centaur not Fabulous," and his " Conjectures on Original Com., 
position," are his* most considerable productions. This last men* 
tioned work, he published when he was more than eighty years of 

He died in 1765, very much regretted both here and m fmeigj* 
•vuntries 



844 ArrENpix. 

Dr. Young** turn of mind was naturally solemn. When at nom« 
*n the country, he usually spent many hours of the day, walking in 
his own church yard among the tombs. His conversation and hit 
writings mostly have some reference to a future life : and this seri- 
ous disposition mixed itself even with his improvements in garden- 
ing. He had the representation of an alcove and a seat, so well 
painted, that at a distance, it had the complete appearance of re- 
ality. On approaching it, the deception was perceived, and this 
motto appeared, Invisibilia non decipiunt, " The things unseen do 
not deceive us." He was, however, fond of innocent sports and 
amusements ; and often promoted the cheerfulness of his company. 
His wit was generally poignant, and was often lereiied against fhos* 
who testified any contempt for decency or religion. It may be tralj 
Raid, that be filled bis post with great dignity. 



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